The Eau de Doom Job
by Valawenel
Summary: This is a short story (3-4 chapters max) - full of nothing about nothing. There isn't even a decent plot. Don't tell me later I didn't warn you. It's No.9 in Texas Mountain Laurel series; cca one month after The Redhead Twins Job. This one can't stand alone.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's notes:**

Well, I'm back :D

This is No.9 in series, and people who just now stumbled upon it will have no idea what's going on. I suggest (if you want to invest a little... (well, 'a little' isn't the right word here, but play with me),...a little time, start from the beginning.

Here's the full list. For description, links and trailers go to my profile.

 **1\. The Occam's Razor Job**

 **2\. The Season Six Job**

 **3.** **The Chargoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungamaugg Job**

 **4\. The Dark Rashomon Job**

 **5\. The Arch-nemesis Job**

 **6\. The Kryptonite Job**

 **7\. The SNAFU Job**

 **8\. The Redhead Twins job  
**

 **9\. The Eau de Doom Job**

The list will be messed up around Christmas, because I'm writing a fic for Secret Santa Exchange on Live Journal. It's a gift, so it can't have Betsy, Florence, George, Orion, etc, except in mentions. Fics 3,4,5 and 7 are written that way (all shorter ones), so I'll try to put that one into the series as well. Wish me luck.

PS: I missed you :D And I missed those five idiots :D

PPS: Special thanks to my beta, Smooth Doggie. Love you, bro' :D

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 **The Eau de Doom Job**

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Chapter 1.

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Four jobs in four weeks. The Leverage team never had that crazy a pace, and just after they'd barely lived through the kidnappers, killers and torturers, spiced up by a deadly dust storm in Arizona.

Eliot Spencer checked his watch and started his countdown. The last five minutes of their fourth job had just started. A tingling mixture of worry, adrenaline and his concentration sharpened the blurry, dark hall he was in. Thousands of pipes in all shapes and sizes climbed the walls around him, breaking through the ceiling like magic beanstalks. When they started this job, Hardison had mentioned what all those pipes were for, but it simply slipped his mind. He was tired.

Silence in his earbud waited for the answer. "Yeah," he said. "Sure, I can break through nine doors; Parker doesn't have to leave the vault for that. See you on the other side."

He wasn't sure which move would be wiser: letting the others believe that the holes in his shoulder and leg had healed completely in those four weeks since their return from Phoenix, or remind them that it would've only been the case if he'd spent those days actually resting. Which he obviously hadn't. _Four damn jobs, each one crazier than the other_. He couldn't remember the last time he'd even slept. When any of them had slept.

"You have less than five minutes. Police are already on their way here." Nate's voice sounded as if he spoke into his scarf, which he probably had. Nate was with Sophie at the other end of this huge facility full of pipes. And full of extremely pissed off thugs who patrolled all around after Eliot drew them all away from Sophie and her mark, Neil Francoeur. Nate just arrived at the scene, posing as a dirty cop who brought news of a planned attack and gained the mark's trust in this last, and most sensitive, part of the plan. Sophie, in a role of journalist selling secrets which Nate's alias provided, only had to work her magic and make Francoeur sign the deal. With Parker's loot from the vault, and Francoeur caught red-handed with these incriminating papers, the Police would have everything they needed to put him behind bars. Yet, Nate and Sophie had to clear out through the back of the building, so as not to be caught in the crossfire, or worse, detained at the scene by the Police. Timing was crucial – only this time, their timing was less stable than a rubber boat with fifteen holes. _On a moody, annoyed sea with a hostile frown_.

Eliot, in the role of a one-man attack team, had drawn the nine thugs away from them and kept them busy. Five still stood with Francoeur, and he could do nothing about it. He had to clear the escape route of thugs and doors.

He also used that diversion to check the state of his injuries. He ran and danced around the thugs while fighting, and was rewarded with just a slight stabbing pain through his thigh. Nothing more, all his movements were normal. His shoulder was a different story. It was first dislocated in the deadly fight with the Koreans, and only four days after that he got a through and through bullet wound in Washington on that damn flu job. It still hurt with any sudden movements, and the hits with his right hand were weaker. Slamming down nine doors wouldn't help it heal any faster.

Hardison's voice crackled through the static in his ear. "Old wooden doors. I can't do anything with them, but I'm working on blocking all elevators on the opposite side. Once you clear the escape route, I'll keep any reinforcements away."

Hardison was the only one outside of the building. He waited in Lucille with three fluffy pillows under his injured butt and with a permanent sulking tone in his voice.

"You said a forbidden word," Parker whispered. "I thought we weren't allowed to mention elevators-"

" _You_ aren't allowed to mention them," Hardison said. "I have to."

Eliot hid his smirk, though none of them could see him; he was alone in the dark, in the half-abandoned wing. Technically, it wasn't Parker's fault that Hardison had landed on his butt during their last job; the elevator bottom simply fell off. It was her cackling that made it worse. Or maybe the fact that Eliot had to heave him over his shoulder and carry him away, because they had to clear out in haste.

"Nobody," Nate said, "nobody will mention elevators, or dust storms, or glitter – especially not you, Eliot – or pink barrels, or anything from our last four jobs. Are we clear?"

"Couldn't agree more," Hardison said. Eliot agreed wholeheartedly. More than that, he hoped he would be able to dismiss them from his mind permanently.

"We shall concentrate on this job, and try to finish at least this one without a disaster," Nate continued. "Only five minutes, and we're clear, and out of-" He cleared his throat, and his voice changed. "No, Mr. Francoeur." There was a cold edge in his voice now. "I came to you with a warning, and because of me you were able to stop this lunatic's attack. Not my fault your guys are so damn lazy that they can't catch one man. I won't wait any longer – sign those damn papers so my lovely associate and I can clear out."

Eliot didn't wait for Francoeur's response. He had nine doors to take care of.

He eyed the wood before him and took a few steps back.

"Uhm, Eliot, about those doors…" Hardison sang in his ear while he surged forward. One good thrust with his good shoulder and it would-

He slammed with all his force, and the door bounced him back with the equal strength. He ended on the floor – on his butt – listening as a loud bang of that impact spread through corridors, for all the thugs around to hear.

"Yeah, Hardison?" He spit the words out. "You were sayin'?"

"I found new specifications – they ain't plain wooden doors, there's a metal construction inside, and-"

"Yeah, I reckoned that."

He got up, swallowed seven curses, and groped around to find some pole to use as a lever.

"Nobody panic, nobody panic," Hardison's words sped up, a true sign he was talking to himself. "Even if it takes longer than five minutes, we can pull this off. Sophie, Nate, if you make Francoeur sign that shit just a tiny little bit faster, and if I put some obstacles in front of the Police, you can clear out via the main door, the Police won't be there yet. It'll be tight, but-"

"That won't be necessary, Mr. Francoeur." Sophie's voice, only for the four of them, changed in a nuance. She was talking to them now, among her honey words she wrapped around Francoeur.

Eliot found a pole. It even had a sharp end, perfect to stick between the lock and frame. He secured the metal, took a step back, and slammed his foot into it. The door gave way, but so did the pole.

"First one done," he said entering the huge storage room with another door on the far end, waiting for him. "Parker, how long?"

A loud clang similar to the sound he just made preceded the thief's reply. "Two minutes to take all documents, one minute to clear all traces, one minute to climb down. I can start on the doors in the fourth minute, and work on the ninth door, then eighth, towards you. We'll meet in the middle."

"Sounds like a plan," he said.

One more bang. The sound came from the other side of a long metal corridor. This damn place was a huge love child culminating from a baseball stadium and a submarine, all with hard edges, screeches and clangs.

A clamor of quick steps rattled closer. The thugs he'd drawn here and left to chase their tails had heard his noise. And in that same moment, all other sounds from his ear disappeared. Sophie and Nate sank in silence, leaving a void where just moments before voices and their background noise were.

He froze mid-step, than forced himself to move. "Hardison?"

For the longest five seconds, only cracking static answered. Hardison's voice broke through. "Don't panic, don't panic! It's this damn place; my signals had to dig through too much metal. I'm working on… here we go, I got them again."

Sophie continued her sentence from the middle. Perhaps she hadn't even noticed she was offline. Eliot started breathing again, and hurried to find another pole.

Parker might dance through all those doors faster, but the way their luck was going lately, he wasn't willing to leave anything down to only one person, or only a single action.

As if in confirmation of his reasoning, their luck twinkled for a second just a little brighter: the second door was unlocked. It gave him thirty seconds more.

A sparkle of their luck died with a hiss when he took his next step. "I think he is here!" A shout from his left was followed by sounds of running. He quickly withdrew deeper into a cluster of pipes and held his breath. Two thugs galloping. There was a chance they would simply continue past him, but whatever, every delay chewed off a little time they had.

The door he just broke might divert them and lead them to the room from which he came. For a few moments it even looked like a possibility, but-.

His phone rang.

The piercing sound of a trumpet, a cavalry in charge mode. He chose that ringtone for only one person – a person who was supposed to call him only when it was absolutely necessary. A surge of fear clogged his heart; he couldn't let it go to the brain.

He stepped from the shadows towards the thugs who hit the brakes. "I have to take this call," he said.

"Now?!"

"Now, Hardison." He gritted the words out, and put the Bluetooth piece in his other ear. "Mute my side, and leave others so I can hear them-"

"Can't do that. I'm keeping you all online with weaving ley lines and super glue – can't be sure I'll be able to get you back."

For a moment he had no idea what to do. The thugs read that hesitation from his posture and took a step forward. Cheerful trumpet followed their advance, as the phone kept ringing. Absence of words in his earbud was significant; even Sophie stopped talking, waiting to see what was going on.

All of them would hear his conversation. Yet, there was no chance in hell he wouldn't answer it.

Irritation almost muted his fear when he decided and clicked the phone.

"Evening, Spencer," a lazy male voice said. Interference sent cracking through Eliot's other ear. He could barely hear their mark explaining something, but he could clearly picture Sophie and Nate letting Francoeur talk, while listening to _this_ conversation. The voice went on, "I know you've told me to call you only in-"

The first thug aimed, and he blocked his hit. "Cut the crap, Woodward, no time for small talk. What happened?" The second thug jumped in while he talked, and he slammed his foot at his knee to keep him at bay.

"Yeah, something happened, I don't know what yet. You said to report immediately anything suspicious, so… today Florence McCoy disappeared for three hours." The first thug paid for that info maybe a little harder than Eliot originally wanted, but damn, fear sped him up. Woodward kept going, "I always follow her when she drives to and from work, but today she made circle after circle and I lost her."

He grabbed the second one, head-butted him to keep him quiet, and put him in a chokehold. He cleared his voice of snarl and anger, and sang, "Would you mind telling me how one clueless writer could-"

"Hey, she ended at the mall, and I was alone! No harm done, she came to work right on time. But something is wrong. She marched through the writer's room, and I'm not sure whether she was pissed off or crying. She is now on the phone, I'm watching her right now. What do you want me to do? To find out what happened, or just leave it and pay more attention?"

He strengthened his grip, and the thug gave out a low bellow.

"What's that noise?"

"I'm watching a movie. _Jurassic Park_. Can't talk right now. I'll think about it and get back to you later, okay? Just keep a close eye on her until we see what happened."

"Gotcha. Later." Woodward cut the call, and Eliot lowered the unconscious thug on the floor.

Eliot's paralyzing fear diminished to its normal levels. She was alive and safe for now. But what the hell happened? Hundreds of possibilities ran screaming through his head, and he had to literally shake it to clear his mind. _Not now_. He had doors to take care of.

He dragged two bodies into the corner; in the dim light they looked just like two more pipes. Then he returned to the third door he had to break down. No lever in sight. And time was ticking.

Nate cleared his throat. "If you have to make some phone calls to check my info, Mr. Francoeur, now is the time to do it. Go on, all of us will be calmer and satisfied, able to concentrate on our job."

Just great. He _wasn't_ distracted. "Not now, Nate. I'll call her later. Let's do this first – make him sign that shit finally!" The last word was followed with a bang. This time, the metal construction didn't have a chance; he simply barged through the door. Frustration and fear were the best fuel.

"Police ETA, three minutes," Hardison said. "So, that's how you dealt with the suspicious CIA counselor? Gave him a nanny job? Nice. But I doubt Flor- I mean, She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would be delighted if she finds out."

He ran through the unknown room, to the fourth door. The pipes clanged with his each step. "Not your damn business," he said. Static barely covered Hardison's low snickering.

If he took one of the heaviest pipes, could he use them to break through the door? Or were they full of gas, or steam, or who knows what shit? Asking Hardison to explain – again – the facts they were all supposed to know was not acceptable.

"Nate, I'm done with the vault, sending you the documents," Parker's voice chimed in. "I'll be at the ninth door in a minute."

From Nate's side, a clanging sound covered Sophie's soft voice. "You, young man, help me clear this desk," Nate said. "While they talk, I'll take a look at my laptop. Francoeur, I might have one more thing for you. Gimme a minute." When the clanging around him stopped, Nate spoke lower. "Okay, people, Francoeur is stalling. He is waiting for something; he's maybe only trying to get a better deal from Sophie, but we're in a tight spot here. Hardison, work on those elevat- on our other escape route. Parker, Eliot, if you can't open the doors in a minute, clear out. Stay together."

The fourth door was unlocked, and Eliot was at the fifth in only a few steps. He even found a pole on his way through the room. This time he pushed it under the door and pressed down with all his strength. Not only the lock and door gave way, even the frame cracked on the left side. _So much about clearing out and leaving them to play hide and seek with the Police_.

The pipe that went above the door cracked too, and with a quiet _blurp_ , thick greenish goo rolled out and down. He jumped away and through the door, careful to avoid heavy trickles. It smelled like roses. _What the hell is this place_?

"Stop!" Hardison said, and he froze. Sophie stopped talking, and Parker's steps vanished. "Only you, Eliot – you have three guys approaching from the right. They'll be at the sixth door when you reach 'em. Can you evade them or-"

 _Yeah, right_. _Not in the mood for evading_. He swirled the pole and charged at the three shadows at the far end of a long hall.

He was half way there when his phone rang.

One silver bell. _Florence_. He almost stumbled. Every other time he would wait, but not now, not after Woodward's warning. Something was up, and he was nine hundred and sixty-four miles away.

He cleared his throat from accumulated curses. "Hardison, you couldn't…"

"Nope. I have to keep you all online. Sorry, man."

"Okay, just try not to… try to… just keep quiet y'all."

He slowed down and clicked the phone.

"Hey," she said.

And that was enough. He melted. He hadn't heard that soft, warm voice for almost two weeks; he insisted they keep their talks to a minimum. Cell phone conversations could easily be intercepted.

The three thugs before him blinked in confusion. One of them even took a step back. Only then did he become aware that he smiled, involuntarily, that his face softened.

"Hi there," he said, and squinted when his voice went out in a warm, caressing drawl. One of the thugs returned an uncomfortable smile; the other two watched him with confused frowns.

"I hope I'm not calling at a bad time… can you talk? A minute?" Definitely a hesitation in her voice, and a barely noticeable tremble. Something _did_ happen.

"Yeah, I'm right in the middle of something, but I can listen if it's really important." He tried to scowl at the thugs – eyebrow movement was crucial – but there was no chance he could change the gentleness of his voice. The result was so confusing that he simply shrugged at the thugs.

"Oh. You're working. Never mind, this can wait, I'll-"

"No way. Talk. Now." He took a step closer to the thugs and raised the pole. "I'm doing some plumbing, so if you hear clangs, those are just pipes. Lots of pipes around. So, what's up?"

All three surged forward, and the clangs really sounded authentic. Thuds, bangs, and grunts a little less, but he hoped she wouldn't notice.

"It's just… It's an awful end of an awful day-" Her words ended in a sound that was disturbingly close to a sob. "I was crying – and no, nothing serious, just everything went wrong and I was tired – and on top of all the shit that happened, I realized that I don't cry like women do in movies – I slobber and drool and I look like a monkey! That was the crown of the day."

He received two nasty hits, but he was grinning like an idiot, and he barely felt them. "Yeah, I noticed that," he said, and used her squeal to cover up an elbow hit in thug's face. "Why did you cry?"

"I tried to keep it secret, planning to surprise you, victoriously, but everything went south."

Yep, he could relate to that last part. He smashed the last thug, eyeing the sixth door. "Pipes, Flo. Many pipes around me. Stop beating around the bush and tell me what the hell happened."

"I went to a cooking class and they threw me out!" Her voice rose in a mixture of tears and anger, and interference sent a loud shriek through his other ear. Good thing that a combination covered up low Francoeur's murmuring in the background. He sounded like he was going through the documents Nate opened on his laptop. "Can you believe it? I was in there only an hour. I couldn't learn anything, how dare they … they said they would sprinkle a circle of salt around the building if I ever try to show up again!"

"I don't get it." He _did_ get why they threw her out, though; he still remembered that dreaded sandwich she made. He'd barely survived it. "What has the salt got to do with-"

A low harrumph that grew in the background exploded, and Hardison laughed aloud.

"Oh, Hardison! The only one who knows of what I speak. Wait, how is it you're listening… Eliot, you have an earbud in, and you didn't tell me?"

"Well, there wasn't time… they can't talk, and I had to hear what's going on, so-"

"I can talk!" Parker chirped. "Hi, Florence! Did you know he doesn't allow us to say your name, like, ever?"

This wasn't happening. He did his best to keep them all separated – he was a damn hitter here, he knew why it was important – and now his two worlds collided with a bang. He muttered a curse and slammed at the sixth door.

"I can talk, too," Hardison said. "How are you surviving his paranoia lately?"

Florence's warm giggle sounded happy now. "I missed you so much. What happened, how come he slipped now? He said I can't call you, and now he's allowed a conference call-"

Eliot stepped over the crashed door; the darkness in the room behind them only emphasized their voices. " _He_ is here, listening," he said. "And he most certainly didn't allow this."

Nobody seemed to notice that.

"We are working on a small case," Hardison said. "He did try to shut the earbud down, but I couldn't take him offline."

"Speaking of a case…" Nate trailed in.

"Nate!" Flo's voice, high and loud, set off another wave of static shrieking, and he couldn't hear Nate's reply clearly. But he heard the tone of it, bleak softness – a combination impossible to produce for anyone but Nate.

"- and a few days ago he slammed into a parked car 'cause he was texting you while walking-" Parker's voice continued, running over Nate's response, while Francoeur said, "You are a very attractive woman. Would you like to go out with me?"

Eliot seriously considered slamming at the seventh door with his head. If he could find them in the sticky darkness. The green goo seemed to follow him, crawling along the floor.

"Thank you," Sophie purred her words, warmth throwing her completely out of her role. The same warmth clearly triggered Francoeur's melting. "I would be delighted to finally _see you_. A dinner, perhaps? This isn't enough."

"Oh, me too, Sophie," Florence said, catching the message to her without any problem. "You have no idea how I've missed you, and this definitely isn't enough. But he will try to stop that, you know? He'll start with all Y _ou could lead enemies to the team, and the team can lead them to you_ speech."

"He did that speech on our end, too. More than once, actually," Parker said. "We kept nodding. Hardison calls it WES - Weekly Eliot Spiral and-"

For one second, all their voices disappeared. Eliot took a deep breath. But the silence lasted only one step, and six voices speaking at the same time – with giggles – returned in full force.

"-and you have to bring Orion." Hardison finished his sentence that ran over all of them. _When did they have time to start arranging meetings_? "George is lonely and-"

-and the sooner we finish with these papers, Francoeur," Nate sharpened his voice for this particular sentence, "you can go for that dinner, like, in two minutes."

"Ah yes, two minutes, that'd be it," Hardison said. "Police. ETA, that stuff. Hurry up. No, wait…"A silence after his words ended with a hiss. "Hell no. Clear out, now!"

Eliot opened his mouth to ask why, but then he heard it too – wailing of the police sirens. "Dammit, Hardison, what-"

"Hey, not my fault! I called them as an undercover cop in trouble and warned them to sneak in quietly! Somebody messed up big tim-"

"What's this?" Francoeur's voice rose in anger over Hardison's words. "You two! You set me up?"

"That's it," Eliot changed his course. "Hardison, guide me to them. Parker, take care of the doors, we'll come out hot. Flo, cut the call, I'll call you later." He ran as fast as he could, and his heart hammered. He would need minutes to reach them, and-

"No way." Sophie's voice still kept the same warmth. "Just _stay_. This might be a false alarm. Or even some trouble in the neighborhood. We most certainly don't want the police here."

"Are you sure?" Florence whispered. "I don't want to confuse you now… I'll stay online but I'll be silent."

"Trust me." A magic in Sophie's voice – probably accompanied by her hand on man's upper arm – silenced Francoeur's anger into a low growl. "These sirens sound distant. We have enough time to clear out, just in case. Maybe even to meet later and-"

"Tell me he signed it!" Hardison moaned in frustration.

"No, no time for that." A click of a laptop closing followed Nate's words. "That dinner will have to wait, Francoeur. But we'll have to finish this before that guy who attacked your men returns. He probably called the cops, too. I can't do anything about it."

Eliot slammed with his foot at the pipes as he ran, and a gigantic wind chime sent a low bawl before him. _Still too far away_. Francoeur could decide to end all his suspicions with two quick bullets. Every second of his silence increased the danger; sirens wailed louder.

"In the next corridor, turn left," Hardison said quietly. Parker and Florence kept silent. "Parker, when you unlock all the remaining doors, get out."

"This is my number," Sophie said. "Don't wait too long to call me." Her tone, more than her words, almost made Eliot curse out loud. It even set a tingling through his heart; so much power was in her voice. An irresistible, dangerous siren whose song lured her victims. The fact she had to use it told him that their lives really stood on a precipice.

Endless corridors still stood before him. A thug jumped into his way and he knocked him down mid-step without even changing his pace. A static rose around, muting all other sounds. He caught only two of Nate's words: exit and chance, and he sprinted. He was now in the heart of this metal tomb and with every step crackling grew stronger, covering up all voices. Only a basic sense of direction guided him. The scent of roses grew stronger.

Another door, half open, glimmered in a dull darkness, but no thugs came through. He surged forward. Nate showed up, opening the door completely, letting more light into this hall. Eliot jumped aside into pipes, but he didn't have to – only Sophie followed Nate, no thugs. She stood a moment at the door, turning to the light, and sent a dazzling smile over her shoulder.

He remembered to breathe again.

"This way," he called. "Do you hear Parker?"

Nate drew Sophie after him. "Only static. Lead the way."

"Before me." He let them pass. Sophie took off her high heels, but it only sped them up a little. At least no one chased them. _For now_. "Are we blown?"

"Lingering in a half-blown limbo until further notice," Nate said. He stopped at the end of a hall, and Eliot shooed them to the right.

A cluster of pipes burst out from the wall, missing them only because they ducked and jumped away. "What the h-" Green goo splashed on the floor like a thick mud, spraying their feet.

Light blinded them through a hidden door where pipes have been piled up, and Parker peeked out. "This way. Shortcut directly to the third door. Get in, now!"

They dashed through the opening, right on time. Eliot closed the door behind them in the same second two thugs appeared behind them.

Static cracked some more, but as they hurried through a narrow passage, a few Hardison's words broke through. "Stopping…Florence… and ready to…"

"Eliot?" To his surprise, Florence's voice came clear. "Hardison says you can't hear him. Phone call still holds. Do you hear me?"

"What did he say?" Green globs kept falling from the pipes with thudding sounds.

"Police stopped, and they surrounded the building. Francoeur is kept there in the main hangar from where you left. He said to… wait a second…"

In a pause of her words, he took his earbud out and the cracking ceased. He stopped the others. They stood in darkness, waiting. Only heavy breathing surrounded them, police sirens were muted here.

"You mustn't go to the third door – police are headed that way," Florence quickly continued, "Go left and you'll have an elevator open – it will take you one story down, directly to the back exit."

"Go, move," he nudged the others in the given direction. Parker led the way, he went the last.

"That part is still clear of police," Florence went on. "Hardison brought Lucille there, but hurry up. He can't say how long before police spread toward him. Are you all together? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, tell him we're fine."

It took twenty seconds to pass along the corridor on their left and stumble into the elevator, each second bringing him vivid pictures of police cars surrounding Lucille. He went out first and half ready to charge into guns, but daylight brought only Hardison opening all Lucille's doors.

"Get in!" The hacker parked the van three feet from the exit. One long step and a bounce, and they all simply stepped in.

Parker jumped into the driver's seat; Hardison slammed the door. They drove off, leaving the first cops to cough the dust behind them.

Lucille smelled like a rose garden.

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"…and rain in Portland! My dear, you don't know how lucky you are in LA; now I have more umbrellas than shoes, and that says a lot. Umbrellas have to match your outfit, and that's the main probl-" "I don't understand why people use umbrellas at all." "Parker, then you would be very confused in LA – they use it here when sun-" "We lived in LA. Sterling blew up my house and we fled. Too bad you didn't know that when you met him the first time, I'd ask for you to punch him." "You wouldn't have to ask, I punched him – technically, I slammed a chair at him, but that's the same." "And not to mention what constant rain does to shoes and hair…"

And it went on, and on, and on. Eliot avoided occasional Nate's glances in his direction. He took shotgun, Nate drove. The others cackled in the back. Hardison put Florence on their earbud feed.

He tried to ignore their voices and think of their fucked-up job. "We should've known it wouldn't be easy," he said to Nate. "Food industry is tricky, and Francoeur-"

"Oh, food," Florence said. "Can we not mention that word ever again, pretty please?"

"Our job was connected with a food chemistry compartment in-"

" _Our_ food is something completely different," Hardison ran over his explanation. "You'll see when you get here, our menu-"

He pulled the earbud from his ear and took a long breath. Nate darted one sideways glance at him but said nothing. Good, his sarcastic remarks were the last thing he needed now when annoyance gathered and grew, and the sound of their voices scraped over his nerves.

They didn't get it. As if none of his warnings meant anything, as if all of them didn't know what dangers his life brought along. Leverage team was only partially aware of all the security things he did to keep them safe. Caution was a key word. He kept low, and kept all their heads down, below the surface of a very stormy sea. Florence should've known better, too. Their encounter with the Korean bounty hunters was merely a month ago, and it happened after he did everything possible to keep them under the radar. Her eventually visiting Portland and the Brewpub would be a security disaster. He already dreaded her presence in his life even without that clear a connection. If somebody was keeping tracks, trying to find a connection, it would mark her as a certain target.

Nine hundred and sixty-four miles between them.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to stop a rising headache. Cheerful cackling behind his back didn't help, though they weren't in his ear anymore. They all spoke at the same time, even Parker. "… and then he crosses his arms, and does that thing with lowering his head while speaking – that means he is serious but you know that, right – and he goes blah blah danger, blah blah You- people-don't-know-shit-about security, blah blah Dammit Hardison, blah blah reckless. He was at two point four Weekly Eliot Spirals at the beginning, now he settled on one point seven per week." A short pause. Then Sophie laughed at something Florence said, and he put the earbud back in. Hating himself in process, but unable to stop it.

"… can't call it a better position, though – there are four of you so you can sneak out when he starts, and I can't. But you have to admit he tries to say it differently every time. Wait. He does try with you, too?-"

He pulled the earbud out.

Nate glanced at him – pretending to check the rear-mirror - and slowed down.

He was running out of means to show them – to force them to understand – that he wasn't joking, and every damn word just added to his frustration. The worst kind of frustration; a helpless one. He rubbed his forehead, feeling a bruise emerging, and tried to calm his anger down. His nerves still vibrated because of this green goo fiasco, and still – no one seemed to even remember how close to going down they were only six minutes ago.

There was only one thing worse than being surrounded by a bunch of babbling gold fishes with an attention span of zero point five seconds – being surrounded with them lined up on a barbeque, with dead eyes and open bellies. For ninety seconds, he tried to feel grateful because they were all alive, and it went surprisingly well, until Hardison said, "…heard about CBS' plans to move some of their projects to Portland. The rumors started a few weeks ago out of nowhere. That'd be great for you guys to finally-"

"Hardison!" he spat the word out. "Did you just tell her where our base is?"

"Yes, of course… wait, that means you didn't? You're a special kind of-"

"But I've known about Portland for more than six months," Florence quickly said. "Sterling showed me his card. I was positive you're in the same town."

"Eliot, will you stop being such a prick about it?" Sophie said. "When Lieutenant Schaffer sent us that postcard from a trip with Natalie and the girls, you only grumbled because they cut the girls' hair a bit, not because that gesture was clear 'I've found you, _lawyers_ ' note. Do you really think Florence would spread this around? And what if she does? We are not hiding in a dungeon, for Pete's sake, we run a legitimate B-"

"Shut up, Sophie!" he yelled the words in the last second, before she blurted out Bridgeport Brew pub. His voice might've been a little stronger than he intended. _A little_. A consternated silence fell in the back.

Lucille followed; her engine softened into a slow purr. He turned around to look at them; Sophie glared at him, clearly searching for words.

"What's wrong with you?" Florence was faster than the grifter. Her tone painted a picture in his mind; furrowed eyebrows and a hurt twist of her lips. He twitched. But he couldn't stop now. It wasn't that she would talk around, how the hell didn't they get it? He thought that a close encounter with a contract investigator should've taught them that information could be drawn out of people. If they knew nothing, they couldn't tell anything. De Bruin was just one of many who were after the team, and the mere thought of him anywhere near any of them made his skin crawl. _There's no such thing as paranoia. Just decisions deciding between life and death_.

He took a deep breath before speaking. "I don't want you in contact," he said. "I don't want you near each other. No meetings, no talking. No Orion happily visiting George. And that's my final word on it."

"She was right," Florence said. Warm happiness evaporated from her voice, leaving it colorless. "You _are_ a prick sometimes."

"No, I'm a prick always. And you knew that from the beginning. Don't act like you haven't-"

"Why can't you be a normal person, just one time? We were only having fun!"

"Florence, _stop_."

She stopped. Three seconds of silence lasted before she took one long breath. "I don't know what's your spirit animal, Eliot Spencer," she finally said. She sounded strangely dull. "But I'm sure it has rabies."

A click of an ended line echoed through their earbuds.

He turned his back on their accusing glares, and tried to feel satisfied in spite of the bitter taste in his mouth.

Nate kept his eyes on the road. Lucille still smelled of roses.

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"We weren't, technically, beaten," Hardison said when Nate parked Lucille in the brewpub's back yard. No one was eager to go through the pub and the mass of people. No one, also, said anything as a reply to his words. Even Parker's shoulders were hunched slightly, and her steps lacked their usual bounce. "Francoeur didn't sign the documents but Parker planted them, and-"

"Shut up, Hardison." Eliot colored his words with a solid growl, just in case. He passed before all of them to enter first.

"-and the police got him in the end." Hardison continued as if he said nothing. "I will make sure to connect him to more…oh shit _._ We are home earlier than I thought. Eliot, maybe you should let me go first to check…"

Yeah, right. Hardison was definitely the right person to go first anywhere that needed checking. Eliot darted one annoyed glare at him over his shoulder, and opened the door.

And he stopped.

A twinkly line of pink colored water gurgled in the air, only five inches from his nose. He crossed his eyes to glare it away and then focused them again to see the whole picture. Behind that first line, a grid spread deeper in the room; dozens and dozens of water lines squirted across the room, all the way to their table, Parker's chair, and screens. A thick grid went from metal thingies on the floor, making arches - and moving – and every line ended in one of many vases strategically spread all over the floor.

"Hardison…"

"Well, uhm, about that…" The hacker peered over his shoulder. "Remember that French Guy from the PCA ceremony? I stole his performance. I copied his calculations, his cameras and lasers, and set it all up here, to test it. It's on a timer; I thought we would be busy a little longer."

"Why?"

"Do you have any idea how long it takes to water my Starfleet Academy?"

Eliot rolled his eyes. He was still trying to figure out why the hell Hardison had bought one hundred and ninety six small plants while he was away in Boston and playing with Sterling in the Vermont woods. The hacker did mention back then that he was working on bringing more light and green into their too dark offices, but those plants were rackety and weak. And they were everywhere. _A fleet, indeed_. The only healthy looking plant – gorgeous, in fact – in this room was George, and he stood… he looked better and gritted his teeth. "Hardison, is that a _pink_ water jet going into George's vase?"

"Not…exactly. You see, it's just an effect. Cameras and lasers, and colored lights provide the optimum-ugh." Hardison's head disappeared; Nate took his place and observed the room.

Eliot took one careful step deeper in the room, avoiding the first line, so the others could spread behind his back instead of staying stuck in the door frame.

"Hardison, turn the water off," Nate said. "We have work to do and-"

"I would, but it's set in the back room."

The back rooms, on the other side of the main briefing room. Eliot eyed the computer on the working desk; the glass doors were closed.

"Okay." Nate sighed. "Parker, go turn that thing off."

"My pleasure."

Eliot moved again to make room, but he didn't have to; the thief slid past him and pirouetted her first step under the lines. They watched her progress. She was definitely showing off. He glanced at Hardison's soft smile and enchanted eyes, the same expression every time he watched her being a thief. Did he look the same while watching Florence? Damn, probably.

Not everybody watched Parker evading sprinkling water; when he turned sideways to see if they closed the door behind them – they did – he met a cold, calculated stare, drilling his skull. He glared at Sophie but she didn't back away an inch.

Parker danced through the drops; she had only two meters to reach the glass door, but plants there were lined in a tight line, everyone with its own water-string. She had to slide sideways into a crawl, then up with four turns. At least lines weren't moving.

Opening of the doors cut one line, and water sprayed off the glass, but she slid inside. "Okay, what now?" she asked.

Hardison squinted. "Not sure. I said I was only testing it, so I don't know by heart what steps-" She wasn't listening to him at all, Eliot could tell. Her fingers moved over the keyboard, and pink water turned green. She looked at them through the web of water and grinned.

"Not that! Try to- shit." Hardison's words ended with a curse the same moment when Eliot noticed the change in her grin. The same manic smile she had when she was about to use her taser.

He moved aside and stepped behind Hardison. Nate moved to cover Sophie, but he was slower.

Water arches rose a little; Parker's fingers on the keyboard stood still.

"Sensitive equipment, Parker! Room is full of it! Water is dangerous!" Hardison's voice sounded a little higher. "My equipment sen-si-ti-ving all over the place! Don't even think-"

"Nate," Parker said. "Eliot doesn't have to be here while Hardison finishes Francoeur?"

Hell no.

Nate glanced at him and then looked at Hardison. "No, indeed, he doesn't," Nate said slowly. "Yet, Parker-"

"Good." She cut him off. "Eliot, you should go and apologize for being a bastard."

Yes, this definitely helped with his annoyance. He was hovering somewhere between 'turn around and simply leave', and 'throw the nearest plant and smack that laptop from under her hands'. And he knew she could see it, damn lunatic.

One sparkly string moved from the vase nearest to them; she changed the direction of the sprinkler and pointed it toward them. It whipped the floor a few inches from their feet, leaving splotches, before it returned to the vase. _One hundred and ninety-six water-lines, plus one for George_ … they were balancing on the edge of disaster.

"Stop with this crap," he said. "If this is some postponed revenge for that lemon juice back then in Boston, you better aim- ya' know, nobody tells me what I should or shouldn't do, Parker."

Water turned dark green while she watched him. Then slowly went to purple. Hardison's face followed this saturation play, going in opposite, losing its color as the lines grew thicker.

"Oh, for god's sake, Eliot," Sophie chimed in, "we all know you planned to go to L.A when we finish this. So why all this drama – and that includes you, Parker – when you'll do it anyway?"

"I will, but-" He stopped when water for a second turned bright red, then stopped. The last drops flew to the vases and the strings disappeared. Parker's grin, however, stayed.

"You wouldn't…?" Hardison said.

"I would."

"No, she wouldn't," Nate said entering the room.

Eliot wasn't so sure about it. He let Sophie before himself, just in case. Parker was still too near the laptop, but Hardison quickly joined her there. That should spare them of further danger. _Should_.

He went to check on George, not quite trusting Hardison. Nothing pink in his vase. George returned an annoyed glare. Sitting on the shelf near a humidifier and under an artificial light, the tree looked healthy. He was almost twelve inches taller – and wider – than he was in Boston.

"I suggest you take this as an uncle would take his nephews' playing around him," Eliot said in a low voice. It seemed George took it exactly like that, according to his patient, yet somehow pained smile. Eliot wasn't sure only who the nephews in question here were: Hardison and Parker, or the small plants scattered around him. Their tiny leaves were turned towards George, just like kids would have their eyes turned to someone older… but he stopped thinking about that as soon as his thought formed. The Leverage Consulting and Associates definitely didn't need more weird plants with names. Hardison's plants would stay just that – a decoration. With lousy decorating qualities, but anonymous.

He moved the closest plants to line up against the wall and George tensed. Maybe he wanted them near? But no, George's attention was turned toward the room. Eliot only then did become aware of silence behind his back, and he turned around.

Hardison closed the glass door to the back room, and his and Parker's voices almost muted.

Sophie and Nate sat at the high working console – Sophie's shoes still soaked in green goo stood on it, and her feet were in Nate's lap – and they watched him with unreadable eyes. He could understand Sophie's expression. The grifter's general disapproving of him, what included his thoughts, actions, behavior and probably dress code, was easy to read. Yet, Nate's un-readability definitely wasn't connected with the love life of his hitter.

"I don't think my leaving now is the best idea, Nate," he said. He checked George's soil – maybe slightly too soaked, but okay – and returned to them. He sat at his place in front of now dark big screens, and waited.

He _did_ want to see Florence. 'Want' was understatement. He needed her. They had one weekend together since she came to LA for shooting; a weekend that went in a blink of an eye, at the same time deteriorating the healing of his shoulder for a month.

As much as it slowed his recovery, that weekend also helped him to survive four disastrous little jobs that lined up before them immediately after they got home from Phoenix. He was still clearing the concussion from his brain when clients poured in.

Nate didn't have that time-out. The mastermind had kept himself in a highly alerted state, and maybe this silence was just accumulated irritation and fatigue, the worst possible combination.

Nate did try to refuse the first job, because they all needed to rest and recover, but the woman's life was at stake and they started with no preparations, no intel. The only high point of that fiasco was Hardison posing as a drag queen for the whole three days, distraught and mad, and allergic to his make-up. Eliot had more than a hundred pics; he used every opportunity to snap his phone at the majestic beauty that raged under all the sneezing and slobbering, and with bloodshot eyes.

Before they even wrapped up that job, they had to start another one; another emergency with a dead-line. Hardison didn't get to rest either, because he was perfect to be a half-dying patient in a small private hospital used for drug trafficking. Sophie didn't have to work on him at all. She even made him look better, nagging about overdoing his part again.

Nate started to pull his hair out only when the third job fell before them, not before. Hardison's bad luck blossomed in that one, and although Eliot could hardly sympathize with a bruised butt, he knew how disastrous that injury was for a man who did merely nothing but sitting.

And now, this one, the fourth in line. Pipes and green goo, and feeling of something indecipherably wrong.

"The rest of this job," Nate said slowly, "is more or less rewiring the existing actions. Hardison will work on redirecting all data towards tax charges, not the blackmail ones that I initially planned. There won't be any need for actions like this evening. Paper work, mostly – or better to say, hacking. You can go."

The sound of Nate's voice didn't remove that feeling of silence wrapped around him. _Maybe he is just tired_. They all were. "And you won't take the fifth job while I'm away?"

"I hope not."

And that might mean he would have more than two days. The last time he flew directly to LA to save time, but now he could hide his tracks better. It was late afternoon, and by the night fall, he could fly to Sacramento. He had almost six hours of driving from there to Los Angeles, but he had a whole night for that. Rent-a-car and a false name, and no one who might be keeping tracks on him could connect him to LA. "Hardison," he called. "Get me on the flight to Sacramento. This evening."

The hacker waved through the glass.

"I won't take an earbud, but I'll have my phone," he went on. "If something happens and you need me here, try to call me before the trouble starts. Count the time needed to get back. I will return directly and as fast as I can, but I'd rather avoid direct flight."

Sophie rolled her eyes. "You will drive all night just because of an unknown and probably non-existing someone _might_ notice you went to LA twice in a row?"

He suppressed a growl. "Let me put this as delicately as I can… I'm not telling you how to do your acting things. Do not tell me how to do mine. Okay?"

"We're a little bit twitchy, aren't we?"

As a matter of fact, he was – and much more than he showed to them. They saw only a small amount of slowly gnawing fear, ever present.

Before he could answer – and that was a good thing – Hardison left Parker and came to them.

"I put you on the next flight, in a little less than two hours," the hacker said. He typed on his tablet as he spoke. "I also changed a few things in my calculations for The Watering job – increasing the amount of water in lines would actually make them more stable. I'll work on that more when I finish with Francoeur's part."

Eliot glanced at George, soaked already. "You ain't experimenting on my plant, Hardison. Leave him out of that."

"Yeah, sure," Hardison said. He had that empty gaze of utter concentration, and his fingers flew faster.

"Okay, that's it. He is going with me."

Nate rubbed his forehead, the first move he made after he stopped talking.

Eliot flinched. "What?" This time, his growl had a defensive sound in it, and annoyance grew to the point of explosion.

"You're taking him to visit Orion," Sophie jumped in, "or you're thinking he would be a buffer when Florence tells you everything you ought to hear about your behavior?"

And _that_ was crossing the line. He stopped a nasty snap at the last second and got up. "I have to send Florence details about my arrival, and think through all the steps," he said as calmly as he could, what was pretty pathetic attempt. "That includes a lot of ciphers, messages and flowers, so you'll excuse me while-"

"Wait," Hardison finally raised his gaze from his tablet. "You'll take him on the plane? I'll better make that two seats then, just in case. Though I don't doubt you'd charm your way through bunches of helpful flight attendants and have it your way."

Nate's gaze, now he noticed, lay on the small envelope put on the shelf near George. It stood there since he had returned from Vermont, and that look was a clear message: _you're complicating too much_. Nate had told him that all his plans about security while seeing Florence, had one core mistake, but he refused to say which one. He wrote it – one more way to prove he was an all-knowing bastard - and put it there for him to see it every time he looked at George. It did serve as a useful reminder, making him plan more thoroughly, but it was frustrating nevertheless.

Nate didn't have to say anything.

Eliot picked up George - lashed them all with one last, nasty scowl- and left.

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Nate observed the green goo tracks Eliot's boots left on the floor, and he rubbed his forehead again. The sweet flowery scent still lingered around them all.

The next five minutes he studied Sophie's struggle to not breach the berserk-paranoid-idiot subject. He pretended he was going through the documents Parker lifted from Francoeur's safe, hoping Sophie would use Hardison as a target. Yet the hacker was also busy and he replied to her probing with absent-minded mhm-mhm's until she gave up and went to the kitchen for coffee.

Parker wandered behind the grifter.

"I didn't want to say anything while they were here," Hardison said immediately after the thief closed the door, "but you should call Eliot."

"To come back? What did you find?"

"No, just to warn him. Remember those interferences in the earbud system? It wasn't because of the metal around us. Someone else was monitoring that facility. Maybe even Francoeur – or the police – but I can't know for sure. Whoever did that, wasn't in the building."

"I see." Keeping quiet was a wise choice. There was no point in adding fuel to Eliot's paranoia while Sophie was already going for his jugular. The hitter would initiate one more set of his precautions, and Nate could, unfortunately, imagine the lever of complicity he would put that simple going from point A to point B on. That would, also, raise his annoyance and explosion would be inevitable.

 _Hardison says that someone unknown monitored the facility. Nothing to worry for now, but keep that in mind. No change in plans until further notice_. He sent the message to Eliot and spread all the papers he had on the working table.

Something wasn't quite right in that action today. Time to find out what.

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	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

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Florence McCoy was aware that returning to her writer's room to join her fellow authors wouldn't be such a bright idea in this state. This whole day was disastrous, full of small, gnawing assholes scattered across every hour – and it culminated with that stubborn, paranoid prick who had thought that because his life was full of crap, he had a right to rearrange hers.

She _didn't_ want to disturb them, or jump with her telephone call right into the middle of their action. That only served to remind her of the days she had spent with the whole team, when Leverage Consulting and Associates saved her life and her show.

It reminded her of the thrill and adrenaline; of fear and dread; of friendship and love. No, she really didn't need that.

For a few moments, it had felt like she was back with them again, being a part of a con while conveying Hardison's words to the rest of the team.

She missed that. She missed _them_. And then it ended, simple as that, when that, that… bastard, forbid her to see and hear them, with that well known cold voice. It wasn't an annoyed growl – she loved those – no, it was a calculated, precise decision. Dry and cruel. No objections, no pleas; _he decided_.

 _Fuck you, Eliot Spencer_.

He was damn lucky she loved him.

She tried to ignore her annoyance-bordering-anger and finish as much paperwork as she could before returning to the main writer's room. They all worked together on the new scene for episode ten; some of their ideas wrenched her nerves even before all of this started. If they welcome her with another set of … _and then Buck suddenly remembered he had a screwdriver in his boot_ … she knew she would just lose it.

As if her thoughts summoned him, the office door opened and an electric blue gaze locked with her. Buck had cut his hair, but his bleached blond streaks were still visible, adding a _yum_ to a package containing all the standard 'chiseled face-piercing eyes- kissable lips- fame and fat bank account' list of clichés.

"Hello precious," he said. His left eyebrow jumped a little, and she squinted.

"Stop impersonating Richard Castle," she said. "You're way too charming for that."

"Fine." Unhappy voice and a grimace did the job much better than that eyebrow wink, but she saw no reason in encouraging him.

Buck was a friend. Maybe because of that she paid more attention to his character, Buck Wilmington, giving him enough screen time to shatter every heart from LA to Boston. He was, also, the only man who knew about her connection to a suspicious counseling agency and one of its members. Only recently did she tell him about their role in the People Voice Awards ceremony – censured and only the basics – but she didn't have the heart to tell him that they were the ones who kidnapped him and turned him into a real life hero.

He closed the door behind him and snatched her coffee. "They sent me to test the waters," he said. "Are you still pissed off? Is it safe to show you their ideas?"

No, no chance. Her writers deserved better treatment. "Tell them I'll look at it tomorrow morning. It's too late now, and I'm not completely concentrating. They can go home."

"And you? Staying or leaving?"

"I have to go to the jewelry shop to pick up my necklace, and then I'm free."

"No, you're not. We have a cocktail party at Bill's place in…" He glanced at his watch. "… in two hours."

Well, damn. She'd forgotten about it. "I barely have time to run to the jewelry store, and to my apartment to feed Orion, never mind get dressed. In case you hadn't noticed, there's a heavy drizzle of rain outside."

His face gleamed. "Hell yes, I did notice! People aren't far from dancing in the streets. We've waited for that for months."

She forgot. Southern Californians and their inane fascination with rain; it was funny. Her days in Boston had spoiled her a little. In her mind, rain still meant trouble, floods, and the probability of bad hair.

She also didn't have any wish to join in with their joy. "What do you think, is there any chance-"

"No. You skipped the last one. You're forgetting the rule – do not skip cocktail parties in Hollywood." He returned his empty cup and opened the closet door to check out his looks in the inside mirror. Florence hid a smile when he rearranged three loose whips of hair on his forehead. They looked natural, but they were always in the same position. It took him two years to relax in her presence enough to be able to do that, rather than hiding all the little quirks of his public image.

He caught her smile in the mirror, and his public smile softened into his normal one. "Tough day?" Even his voice had lost its hero edge. "Woodward asked me about you; and when your CIA counselor asks what's wrong, you pay attention."

Oh. She felt her smile fading and quickly poured some unfelt joy into it. It might be contagious Eliot's paranoia, but after she returned to LA, she felt something different in Woodward's behavior. The guy was always a little murky – it came with the job – but he had treated her as any other writer. Upon her return, everything changed. She felt him everywhere around her, though she couldn't tell for sure that he was really _more_ present. His eyes were different; always looking in her direction, but invariably a few inches aside. And when she talked, his attention was awakened no matter what he was doing at the time.

She thought maybe he liked her, and she tested her theory with a few Hollywood-divorced-and-wild smiles. He withdrew. After that, she made notes about his every move in a file, hidden in her research folder, under the name James Sterling, as if he was a new character for the show.

"Did he ask you something specific?" she chirped.

"Only why did you look like you've been crying."

The pause after his words was a clear inflection, a silent question; she was grateful he didn't press. She hesitated a moment. He was the only one who knew a few things about her secret love life. She never thought of revealing any of that to her female friends. Strange, now when she thought about it.

"I called Eliot in the middle of a job they were doing," she said before she lost her courage, "and had a chance to speak with the entire team, after more than nine months. And he cut it off, and _forbid_ any future contact."

"My, my," he said. "Okay, this is the plan: I take you to that shop and home to feed the cat, and you pour it all out, while I drive."

"You sound like my grandma."

"Your grandma must be a fascinating woman then." He took her coat and held it out in an inviting pose. "Besides, last week you listened to my two hour long tirade about Bill's new boyfriend. Your boyfriend is at least more intriguing. Come now, no time to waste."

She sighed and got up. Yeah, it would be nice to finally have someone to nag to relatively freely. Censored, but not completely.

They passed through the writer's room on their way out and she picked up the cursed scene in episode ten to read it on their way to Bill's place.

And there he was, Clark Woodward; explaining a detail in Vin's third line about government agencies to one of the writers. He didn't look at her at all, but when she turned to leave, she felt his eyes on her back. Steady and calm.

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George was thrilled with this new adventure. The plant seemed to be quietly humming while Eliot secured him in his seat. George even raised a cocky eyebrow at the flight attendants who complimented his color.

Eliot restrained himself from elbowing his pot to keep him quiet; he had to remind himself, again and all over again, that the tree was only that: a tree. _He can't talk, you moron_.

In return, George rolled his eyes at him, as if he was challenging him to test that theory.

"Yes, Ma'am, thank you. Coffee sounds great," Eliot diverted the attention of a gorgeous redhead who was hovering over George. It seemed that plants, as well as small children, were like chick magnet.

He also noticed the sheer amount of redheads in his life. The number had multiplied since he began his relationship with a blonde. Every damn woman he had encountered lately was a redhead, and beguiling. There was a message in that, but he couldn't decipher the meaning.

And speaking of blondes and messages… He pulled out his phone and dialed his flower shop in LA. He bought it with the plan it would be the critical warning system for danger, but for now he only used it occasionally to send flowers to Florence, to force her to rehearse all the meanings of each bouquet. The last one he had sent was a huge blossoming package; it had the whole report in it, not just a message.

 _Seven Australian contract killers are after us. Leave your place and buy a safe. Danger will cease in twelve days. Go to the third meeting point and wait there for me. After three days contact Nate_.

She enjoyed deciphering his riddles.

The results were, unfortunately, something completely different. The message she had sent in reply was as follows:

 _Seven kangaroos killed us. Sell your apartment and buy a safe. Twelve days will soon pass, dangerously. Go to the meeting point three times while waiting. Nate will come on third day and solve this shit_. _*I guess this means Nate will kill kangaroos that killed us? And why is Nate always a purple tulip? Why can't I be a purple tulip? I love purple. And tulips.*_

He could only hope she was mocking him intentionally _._

He made a mental note to go through the list of all the meanings for each flower and make it simpler. Two green roses, a warning to _abort all actions_ , were obviously too similar to three green roses, meaning _leave your place immediately_. And the list continued…

He sighed and slurped his coffee, then hit dial.

"Hi Angy, Tom Baker here. Send one red rose to customer seventy- two. No message. Make it an urgent delivery." He listened to the confirmation of the order. Hardison made it impossible to connect Eliot Spencer with an owner of a flower shop, but nothing was completely secure. There was always one layer that could be added to be sure. "One more thing, darling," he added. "After that, send one red rose to all the people on our delivery list."

There. He might never make a profit out of that business – though it went surprisingly well in a town full of celebrities – but no one could guess Florence was anything other than a random customer. He usually made orders via different names, but now he didn't have the time or means to enter the ordering form via his phone.

One red rose had no meaning in his warning system.

But it had his entire world in it.

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"And what's the meaning of this pendant?" Buck asked. He eyed her necklace in a small box while sipping his beer. He didn't comment on the fact that her fridge was recently full of Bud Light, and not wine anymore; or maybe he hadn't noticed.

Florence flew to and fro trying to find her shoes, keys and phone, not necessarily in that order. At least Orion stopped walking around her, and perched himself on Buck's lap.

"Is this... glass?" Buck went on. He pulled the necklace out of its box; a small golden circle filled with faceted crystal.

"Something like that." She sent him a smile. She located her shoes – high heels that went with her little black dress and golden bolero – and she was grateful she felt so free with him that she could stumble in a completely undignified manner while putting them on. On one leg.

"I would've expected at least a diamond. That gold is worth a fortune. Why put glass in-"

"That piece of glass is worth more than any diamond. Besides, it's crystal. And it has my whole life in it."

He squinted at the crystal and frowned.

"I can't explain. Leave it, I'm ready to-"A doorbell cut her off, and she sighed. "Wait there." She went to open the door.

An urgent delivery.

She returned with a red rose and turned her laptop on.

"I thought we were leaving?" Buck put Orion on the sofa and got up.

"Yeah, in a minute. I have to check if this is some sort of message. Usually, when he sends me flowers, it's to remind me of messages, but they're all wrapped in a green paper."

"What?"

"Green paper for 'this is only a drill', and red paper 'this is the real deal'. This rose has neither and I have to check my list." She opened her old documents, the first draft of the first episode of the third season. "I wrote down all the meanings, though he told me to memorize them."

"And if he sent you a message on a post-it, would you have to chew and swallow it, or it would self-destruct in three, two, one-"

"Hey!" She glared at him. "I can make fun of his paranoia. You are not allowed to. And he was right by asking me not to write it down. Even a lousy hacker can find it. It's not safe."

"From my point of view, Florence, it's pretty hard to take all of that seriously. I'm still having trouble picturing real people fighting, killing, and putting their lives in danger. It sounds like one of our episodes."

He meant well, she knew it. He was trying to understand. But she couldn't stop thinking how she now played Eliot's role. _Scare Buck. Show the clueless actor the real world, real death. Real bullets_. Her gaze flew to the table were her necklace stood.

"That necklace was with me in the tunnels below PVA ceremony," she said. She tried to smile; no results. "In the tunnels where the new Florence McCoy was born. We fought our way out. Eliot was coughing up blood; we dragged Nate. He had a severed artery. They chased us through blood, mud and flooding water, in complete darkness. No episode, Buck, could ever recall such despair and dread." Her voice fell and she managed one small, unfelt smile. "Danger in his life is constant and real. My presence is increasing it. I know that."

Buck looked as if he was on the verge of a light, funny comment, but he managed to pull himself back from the edge. "Okay." He lowered his nose.

"I had to write it down because my short term memory is lousy," she continued. "I thought I was clever when I tried to find it with a search, and came up with the idea to hide it from possible searches by changing the font into Windings. It worked, those signs were undecipherable… but when I tried to reverse it back into normal font, I got only line after line of small squares. I lost everything, and had to write it all down again, from memory. I guess I'm not James Bond material. All spies have no problems in memorizing awfully long numbers."

"And, is there a message in that rose?"

"No message." This time, her smile spread without effort. "It's just… for me."

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It took Eliot an hour and a half to leave the airport and Sacramento behind, almost as long as his flight lasted. He brought a German ID and cards, and chose a Mercedes accordingly to stay in his role. Yet, he forgot about George. The entire rent-a-car – full of redheaded beauties – ran around to help the weird German with a plant find a car that would be tall enough for his pet on the front seat.

He wasn't worried about wasting time; it was only around midnight and there was no point in arriving too early. Their cabin was in the hills above Santa Barbara. Florence had at least one hour drive from her apartment.

He stopped before hitting the highway, and sent her a message. _I'm in Sacramento. ETA six a.m_.

The driving time was actually five hours and forty minutes.

Fifteen seconds after his phone pinged, an unknown number called. So, she was awake. And she remembered to use a new burner phone after midnight.

"Oh," she said. The murmur of voices in the background and quiet music told him that she wasn't home. "Only for a weekend, or maybe a little longer?"

She didn't sound like she was sulking, but it might've been an act because of the people around her. "How long would you like me to be there?" he asked neutrally.

"Let me see…" She lowered her voice; there was definitely laughter in it. "Six days for bitching at you, six more for lecturing, at least a week for our first serious fight, and five years of making up?"

Only then did he become aware of the strange pressure in his chest, just as it vanished.

"Do you remember what the thing was that you told me, the first day we met?" he said.

"'Cover yourself, you idiot?' Or 'with a little training, you could make a career out of fighting?"

"After that, when you realized who we were and what we do. You told me that 'explanation is the best form of apology' for you."

"Ah yes… wait, you can't rob me of the chance to hear you apologizing for the first time!" Her voice still had a nuance of hesitation in it.

"I have nothing to apologize for. Except maybe for that monkey thing… your face doesn't look like a monkey when you're crying." He waited a second until he heard a low giggle, then carried on, "With those short blond locks and vanilla face, when you cry you look like mashed potato with bulging eyes."

"What?!" She choked on her giggle.

"But cute mashed potato. Unbelievably cute."

Finally, _this_ laugh sounded normal. "That's better," he said. That sound of her laugh always changed his own voice into a low drawl, as if all the warmth he felt colored it. And she felt it, too.

The sounds around her changed, and he knew she turned her back on the people and guarded the phone. "I miss you," she whispered. "And I know you're right about security, I just… I miss them too."

"I'll see what I can do about it." That was the only thing he could say for now. "And now, unless you want to talk about something specific, I'd better be going. I have a long drive before me."

"Wait… there is something I want to mention. I learned my lesson with Sterling. If I'd have told you about him the first day we met again, we could've avoided all that mess in the Vermont woods." And her hesitation was back.

He gripped the phone tighter and waited.

"You've asked me what was wrong – and my failed cooking class wasn't the only bad thing today. I think I'm being monitored. I wrote down everything I noticed, and I'm taking that on a USB drive everywhere I go – no traces on my computer. Hardison would be proud. I named the file James Sterling."

He gritted his teeth, but tried to keep that out of his voice. "You think Sterling might try some-"

"No, it was just funny to use that name, that's all. I don't think it has anything to do with Interpol. It's about-"

"No, wait. Don't say anything over the phone. You have that USB with you right now? Where are you?"

"At a cocktail party with Buck and the rest of the crew."

"Okay, stay there until the end, and then go directly to our cabin. I'm there in six hours. Remember all the steps I taught you – what to do when danger is anticipated, or only a possibility, when it begins closing in, and finally, clear and present?"

She sighed. "Yes, I remember _all_ five danger degrees."

"Until I arrive, behave as if danger is clear and present, okay? Level five, the highest priority. That means all your reactions have to be immediate and without hesitation."

"I know what level five means."

He ignored the grumble in her voice. "Hardison said that someone monitored our action today. It may be a coincidence, though, and mean nothing. "

"Eliot Spencer, are you trying to calm me down? You don't have to. I noticed something suspicious, but I'm not worried until you confirm that's something to worry about. I'm not a pro, and I might be mistaken. Don't grit your teeth and fall into your paranoia spree. I'm fine and safe."

"Yeah, right. I know." He loosened his grip on the phone. It took more effort than he expected. "Stay close to your crew."

"I will. Buck is once more using me as his gay tester kit, and I'm having a great time. We have a few big names here tonight, so security is on its top game. Trust me, paparazzi are much better than any pro killer; no one can go where they can't go."

"You think your paparazzi-proof security would stop me?"

"You're in another league. And now, just go and – you're not driving while we talk, are you?"

"No, I'm parked."

"Good." He could almost see her smile while saying that. "See you in six hours. I'll be waiting."

She ended the call.

He sat for a moment holding the phone. Rivers of traffic lights flew by, and the distant roar of the Sacramento night wrapped around him.

George was silent.

He hit speed dial and waited until he heard a click.

"Woodward," he said.

The person on the other side read his low growl correctly, because he said one careful, "Yes?"

"Why am I paying you for surveillance, when you didn't notice someone monitoring one of the writers you're supposed to protect? I had a tip off from one of my informants – someone is after Florence McCoy."

"Bullshit. I'm watching her as we speak – we are at a cocktail party, and no one foreign is around. Only the usual weird Hollywood people. If I had to choose the one who _is_ being suspicious, then it would be her – she is the only one acting strange."

Woodward was a retired mercenary and retrieval specialist with many years behind him. He could trust his skills. That was the reason he gave him the job in the first place when he found out he was already there as their CIA advisor. He _should_ trust him – but this matter was far more important than anything else in the world.

"Look, Spencer… you told me to put her as priority, so I did. I lost her in the mall today, but because of her, not someone outside. The only time when people pay attention at her is when she is with her stars, like now. She isn't a well-known celebrity, and it's easy to spot unusual attention around her. There is none."

It wasn't clever to let Woodward know why he had asked him to take this job – he believed they both had the same employer, an eccentric Indian fan of the show. Woodward didn't know she would spend those days off with him.

This night was what troubled him, not morning. _Still three hundred and eighty-five miles between them_.

"Okay. Keep an eye on her tonight. She is going out of town tomorrow, and I have someone else to cover that. You stay with the rest of the writers until she returns."

"Okay."

Woodward ended the call.

Eliot started the car and set his GPS.

"Not a word," he said to George.

George sighed and made himself comfortable.

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It was almost four a.m. when Hardison returned to the office. He had sneaked out when Nate and Sophie went home, and after Parker fell asleep in their upstairs apartment.

Returning to the crime scene wasn't his idea of fun, especially without a hitter to back him up, but he had to take a closer look at the cameras inside that facility.

He was careful. He tried to anticipate any danger. He had his finger on the speed dial button the whole time.

The Police had cleared out after completing their actions. They sealed the building – or at least sealed all the entrances they knew about – so he could be sure there would be no thugs or forensic parties around.

That only added to the creepiness he felt. He would've preferred to play hide and seek with the angry thugs. At least, he would know the source of each and every small – creepy – noise that emanated all around him.

The pipes whispered.

He tried to go directly into the main hangar where Francoeur was arrested, but he found what he was searching for much closer to his point of entry. He only needed one camera.

Someone from outside had accessed those cameras, messing with their communication. If there hadn't been that crackling interference, he would never have found out about it. It could've been the Police, but the moment he took that camera, he knew they wouldn't be that lucky.

He could freely add this, the fourth job; to the list he made for the other three - _worrisome and shady_. The first one he called The Drag Queen Job which continued with The Hospital Torture Job, culminating in the third one, The Butt-Deadly Elevator Job… and he had the same feeling of something wrong during all of them. Especially in that damn elevator, which the bottom should not have fallen off of. There was no possible reason for that. Not even his bad luck could justify that – after he dismissed the possibility of Parker's or Eliot's sabotage. Or Parker- _and_ -Eliot's sabotage. After all, they had thrown him off several high buildings, repeatedly, with those manic grins.

He returned to the office as quickly as he could. Nate wouldn't be too happy when he woke him up at four in the morning, but he dialed his number nevertheless.

Nate's phone rang only a few feet from him.

"Good morning." Nate's voice came from the computers he'd left working in the back room.

Nate, sitting at the table, raised his eyes to him when he approached, and he flashed back to a similar scene not so long ago – in that very night when they first came to Portland, and Nate had told him about the Black Book and the real reason they were there.

It wasn't a pleasant memory.

"What did you find?" Nate's eyes weren't pleasant either. The small lamp was lit behind his shoulder, and shadows lurked around him. Hardison decided he wouldn't ask him why he had returned. He didn't have to.

He put the camera on the papers covering Nate's desk. "This isn't a usual surveillance camera. I checked the last inventory report; they had bought the cheapest model on the market. This is new, a high resolution type, used for one main reason – facial recognition programs. Their zoom function is superb, even though they look no different from any lousy mass market camera."

"So…" Nate glanced at the camera. "Someone outside of that facility happily zoomed in on our faces."

"Or Francouer's," he had to say that, though he knew that chances weren't on their side.

"You can't tell which one of us got caught and recorded? There can't be many of them. Maybe they missed us."

"I wasn't with you inside. The only way to know for sure is to return there, find all of the cameras, and then replay every step each of you took. Can you remember every corridor, every room you passed? I think not."

"Find the manufacturer. If some agency uses it, that might narrow our search. It could be the Police, FBI, Interpol… the list is too long to even start."

"Yeah, I will. But before that-"

"Call Eliot."

"To return or…?"

Nate lowered his gaze to the papers scattered in front of him and the camera sat upon them. The dark lens returned his stare. Only then did Hardison recognize the papers; Nate was studying his reports on The Butt-Deadly Elevator Job.

"Not yet," Nate finally said. "We have nothing solid. Direct flight from LA to Portland lasts less than two hours; he'll be here soon enough if we need him. Just warn him to avoid cameras and the Police for starters, until we have something concrete."

"He'll surely be thrilled," Hardison said and pulled out his phone.

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"What the…" Eliot cut off the curse and bared his teeth. Of course they would find out that someone monitored them right when he left. He quickly checked his GPS. He had two more hours to LA. It would be faster to continue and take the flight from LAX back to Portland, than to drive four hours back to Sacramento and then fly. And what about Florence? This was too synchronized – two dangers on two different sides of the country, and he was stuck right in the middle. Damn.

"No, wait. Breathe. Nate said there wasn't any need for you to return, for now, at least not until we see what's going on. Just stay in touch, and we'll call you if needed. But don't take this facial recognition shit lightly. Remember how I tracked every step Nate took in London when he sneaked out to visit Sophie when she took a break? Avoid all Police and cameras, even… put the hat on and try not to ping anything, okay?"

"Yeah, Hardison; I'll carry George in front of me and peek through his leaves! And maybe put a cactus on my head as camouflage!"

"No need to get nasty, man – it ain't my fault. Besides, you might have your romantic weekend – who knows how long it'll take to dig up everything we need. Just in case… I reserved every single flight from LAX to Portland, all flights for the next seven days. Whenever you're coming back, you'll have a seat. And I'm also checking…" Hardison's words trailed in silence.

"What?"

"You have potential trouble on your way. There was a nasty accident on your highway – Southern Californians haven't used to driving in heavy rain - and the Police are searching for the driver who caused it. This might involve roadblocks, and slow driving in one line, if the interstate is partially closed. Think of something. Avoid showing your face."

"Yeah, I'll think of something. Anything else?"

"Speed limit and El Nino are friends. Be careful."

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Only after another thirty minutes of driving did Hardison's last sentence explain itself. One moment Eliot drove beneath a starry sky, and a minute later he slid into a watery curtain much worse than those pathetic water strings back in the office.

It seemed that constant shit followed Leverage Consulting and Associates since they first stepped into that pipe nightmare, and it was going to continue. What could go wrong, did go wrong. No, it sped in the wrong direction at full speed.

"Southern California's annual rainfall is three cups," he said to George. "Of course it had to pour reserves for three centuries onto our heads, right now when we don't need it."

George said nothing; the plant stared at the road, seemingly deep in thought.

Good idea. Maybe he should follow his lead.

He checked the GPS. After a long, boring straight line through a desert, he was closing to the Maricopa Junction. It was the perfect time to leave Interstate Five before he stumbled upon that accident site and any eventual police blocks. There was a road from Maricopa going through Los Padres National Forest, in good state but rarely used except for wildlife enthusiasts. No villages, houses, cameras anywhere on site for more than fifty miles. The road climbed down between Santa Barbara and Thousand Oaks; some sort of back entrance to LA, directly from the wilderness.

His problem was time. This detour would take more than an hour extra driving, making at least three in total. Maybe even more in this storm. He couldn't tell for sure – for now – so sending Florence his new ETA would have to wait until he could calculate the exact time and position.

The dark mass of hills rising on his right side was visible, as flashes of lightning showed him the contours of the steep cliffs.

At least a curvy mountain road would keep him awake. George wasn't much company, except when he tried to decipher his thoughts and moods.

"You'll like LA," he said and took the turn right.

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The road climbed steadily upwards. Los Padres National Forest was, however, a misleading title. He was surrounded by masses of stones and dried yellow dirt, now soaked with water, and only bushes covered the slopes around him; still no real forest in sight. Only occasionally did a rare tree spring out from the darkness on both sides, glistening in the lightning glow.

There was no traffic. He drove for half an hour and just five trucks roared past, carefully trudging through sloshing water.

Cliffs on his left guarded the road from the heavy outpour, and now he could see tree tops on his right side. There _was_ some kind of a forest below the road, the trees fighting through huge rocks.

Lighting gave enough light for him to see the hills spreading below the road. Behind them, a barely visible orange hue on heavy clouds showed him his target. LA emanated a sea of light under the cover of clouds. His GPS positioned him on the high pass, a notch between a cliff and a steep bluff. He slowed down.

He rubbed his eyes and paid more attention to the water on the road.

"Two more hours of this shit," he said to his passenger seat. "But I doubt this rain will follow us when we go downhill. With slow traffic, we can even-"

The lightning and thunder struck at the same time. A cracking sound pierced his ears when a bolt hit the tree only a hundred feet in front of him.

This was a close call. He blinked the purple flash from his vision.

He didn't see rocks on the road. He _felt_ them.

His tires jumped and screeched, and the wheel in his hands jerked to the right when he hit the landslide. For one entire second, he was sure he would be able to steer the car back on to the road; a crumbling sound meant that rocks might stop him and push him back – but that second ended before his vision cleared. The car balanced, and with a crack, his front tires slid.

The air-bag hit him and blocked his hands; no chance to get rid of the seat belt and jump out before the car gained speed – and he could only count the seconds of his slide.

It lasted an eternity – enough to ask himself, when the hell this day would finally stop pouring shit on his head.

Another flash of lightning, showing him a mass of huge boulders in front of him, gave him an answer to that question. _Right about now_.

The crash was thundering. And everything stopped.

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	3. Chapter 3

Special thanks to Musingmidge77 for betaing this chapter.

* * *

Chapter 3.

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Three different sorts of thundering stirred Eliot from a haze; a dull thumping inside his skull, drumming of rain on a metal roof, and actual thunder echoing through the cliffs around him.

Gasoline smell mixed with the scent of rain and smashed pine trees.

He moved his hands, slowly, checking signals his body sent. Bruised and battered, dizzy but unharmed. The air bag was still pressing him into the seat, and he pushed and wiggled until he managed to slide sideways through the torn door. He expected solid stones below him, but he fell onto the slick mud. Thumping in his head covered all other sounds for a few seconds.

In the third second, he cursed and jumped up, frantically searching his jacket and shirt. If his phone got crushed in the collision; if he dropped it now in the mud…finally he felt it in the pocket and pulled it out, shielding it from the rain. It lit immediately, but he caught no signal.

He let out one sigh of relief and staggered back, sitting on the edge of his seat. He rested his back on the air bag and closed his eyes for a moment. Shit in Portland, shit in LA – and that phone was his only means to know what was happening on both sides. Not the first time that night, he cursed the timing of all of this. As if his – and not only his – every step was doomed to fail.

He tucked the phone in the chest pocket of his shirt and closed his jacket over it, and then he stepped out into downpour.

The rain was warm, and he raised his face to it. It cleared his head.

His first steps around the car were a little shaky, but he was careful. In pitch dark, which even lightning couldn't break, every step could be dangerous.

George's side of the car was almost completely torn. He felt the sharp edges with his fingertips until he found a twisted part of the door and leaned inside. Now he risked with the phone. The bluish light showed George trapped between the air bag and the seat, emanating annoyance so hot that is seemed rain evaporated around him.

"For a plant, you surely look very wordy today."

There were many leaves all around him, and one broken branch, but the tree looked no worse than any other tree after a lot of shaking and jumping.

"Stay there and sulk in silence. I'm gonna climb up to the road and…" He stopped. "Look, you can't bleed out, can't have internal injuries, and from your point of view, it's completely the same whether you're standing in the office or standing on the car seat. Even if I don't return immediately, you can't starve to death."

He almost slammed the remains of the door, but thought better and left it slightly ajar, so an occasional drop could reach his pot. Just in case.

It was damn five a.m. and he couldn't see shit.

Climbing up the slope in pitch darkness was a gruesome effort. He couldn't believe how far downhill he had slid, though the state the car was in showed it clearly. He also noticed how close to death he had been, when he had to go around two crevasses on his way up. The car flew over them. One was a deep, yet narrow canyon-like dike which forced him to go left to find the way around.

He lost almost half an hour on that when he turned around and went back to car, to take George with him. He couldn't be sure he would find him again in the darkness, and if he managed to stop some car on the road and went to LA, somebody else might discover the crash site in daylight. Any rescue part would simply throw the plant out of the car.

Though he was burdened now, his climbing actually went faster, because he took a turn right when he reached the dike across his way again. It ended after only a few minutes of slow walking.

He slipped three times on wet rocks covered with mud – every time he stopped and checked to see if he smashed the phone. A steep slope rose in front of his face and he couldn't follow the trail the car left while sliding. All water from the road flowed down – and mostly into his face – forming small waterfalls while finding its way downhill.

Soaked, bruised, and immensely pissed off, he trotted upwards in zigzag. For every ten steps in right direction he had at least four back. He carried George in his right hand and climbed with the left, until the weight of the vase full of water was too much for his already strained shoulder. He changed his hands after every steep part, fighting muddy streams from above.

 _Keep the phone safe. Don't curse every damn decision you made so far. Don't swallow yellow water_.

The last part was hard to achieve with his teeth bared, but he tried.

George didn't nag, clearly reading his mood. He was on the verge of just planting him there in the soil and leaving him to play a tree on his own. Yeah, bringing the tree on this trip was such a _brilliant_ idea.

Finally – and he knew he lost almost an hour total in this up and down shit – he reached the road. He put George on it and climbed up.

Lightning moved to the south and darkness was thicker.

He sat on the stone to check the phone; still no signal. Rain whipped at him stronger up there, and it wasn't warm anymore. A stream of colder wind followed it, coming from over the pass.

Another ten minutes passed, giving him time to catch his breath, until he saw the first lights from the north. If he caught this ride, he could send Florence a message with new time, knowing exactly how much he would be late. He was about forty miles from LA.

He stood up and waved at approaching truck, but he had black clothes and the driver would see him only in the moment he passed by him. He pulled the phone out, shielding it from the rain above with his sleeve. Bluish light would draw the driver's attention and make him slow down before he saw him waving.

He squinted at approaching lights, half blind, and waved with his other hand, keeping the phone by his chest so the rain didn't get it.

The roar of the engine didn't sound like slowing down. A huge truck swooshed, almost blowing him off the road again. A splash of water washed over him with the strength of a water cannon.

He slowly lowered his hands and blinked water out of his eyes.

His dripping phone blinked back once, and died.

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Orion didn't even stir when Florence put his carrier on the porch of the cabin. She unlocked the door and turned back to get him in, when she remembered she didn't check the perimeter and all the little markings Eliot had left around the last time they'd been there.

She squinted and stopped mid step. The list for this occasion was safely hidden in one of her episode files. She had tried to find it several times, but she couldn't remember which of seventy-seven episodes hid that part of his directions.

She had slept only two hours, and her brain was still hibernating, unable to remember anything about 'returning to the cabin procedure'.

She cleared her throat, loudly, then listened. No sounds in the sleepy forest around her.

"I'm armed and I'll shoot at every shadow I see moving!" she said. There. That would do.

Doing anything else was pointless. If someone from Eliot's circle of enemies lurked in the shadows, they would get her no matter what she tried.

This cabin was closer to the first neighbors than their first one in Vermont was, and it wasn't surrounded by a real forest. It was more a park than wilderness. Eliot chose an expensive settlement full of celebrities, surrounded by a high fence and with security patrolling all around. Cameras covered all paths through the park, but she knew how to shield her face while driving through the gate. He chose a small house, placed at the far left side. He had studied camera coverage thoroughly and showed her how to avoid three cameras between the gate and their garden door. No one studying surveillance tapes could say with certainty she was there.

She brought Orion inside the cabin, but snoring from the carrier was a clear sign of his eagerness to explore new surroundings. It was more contagious than yawning.

Coffee was ready in five minutes. She brought two cups outside and curled onto the hanging porch bed. Carefully. Eliot had fixed the broken chain the last time, but she didn't want to test his skills.

He had called it a weird accident; she called it _a brassy show off with deserved bruises_. Of course he wasn't showing off. There was no way he could know that a swinging, round hammock on the porch wasn't suitable for all they had in mind that night. One chain had snapped and they turned over with so much acceleration that even his reflexes couldn't prevent slamming on the floor. He could only swing a little and turn her to land on him. He also managed to alight with his bad shoulder directly onto her high heels. The only thing on the floor of the porch collided with the only part of him that definitely didn't need any sort of colliding. Okay, maybe not the only part, but that shoulder was already in a lousy shape.

She swung the hammock a little, grinning at the memory, but it gave a low, screechy sound. It spread over the garden and into the trees, too eerie for her liking. It reminded her she was alone here in the dull cloudy morning, and her smile faded.

The gate in the fence, with a small container for security, was visible from the porch. She stared at it without blinking, waiting to see his car, and impatience cleared the sleepiness from her mind.

She checked her phone to see if there was a missed call or message. _Nothing_. She took a sip of coffee, then checked the phone again.

He had ten more minutes to show up. Deciding the exact time of their meeting was very important in all five levels of his danger degrees. If he said he would arrive at six, he would be there. Any delay should've been reported even at the first level, when danger was only anticipated. In his world, there wasn't any casual 'oh, sorry I'm late'. Being late with no explanation meant that something happened.

He would've called even if he thought he would be two minutes late. Sadly, in his life there was also no room for trivialities like traffic jams or flat tires. _Only bullets_.

A touch on her elbow stirred her and she jumped up from the hammock, but it was only Orion. He froze on the swinging thing, confused, and she quickly stopped it.

"Bad timing, sorry." She ruffled his fur and let him snuggle when she sat back.

Five more minutes. She spent them convincing herself that it was just his punctuality; if he said he would come at six, he would do precisely that… but unease she felt settled deep, deep into her stomach.

This shit was the main reason she hated being left out and kept out of his life. It was much worse than fear that cop's wives were going through. They never knew if their husbands would return home alive – but they had an ease of that fear every day when the shifts ended and they came home. She didn't have that ease, only the occasional phone call or message. Sometimes she lived for days not knowing if he was alive or not.

Her phone showed six a.m. He didn't come.

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"I know you're confused, but there's nothing I can do about it," Florence said to the back seat. Orion peeked through the slits in his carrier, watching her eyes in the rear- mirror. "Everything will be fine. Go back to sleep."

Her own voice betrayed her, going into a shaky whisper, and she clutched the wheel tighter.

She had given Eliot ten more minutes to come or call, and she wasn't going to admit that ever. That was against all his rules. The procedure after un-announced delay was simple – initiate level five protocol, immediately. He did tell her to act if the danger was clear and present when they talked before.

After those ten minutes which she spent curled, praying for him to show up and trying not to cry, panic, or run in circles, she took a deep breath, and got going.

First thing – get rid of the phone. She always carried two burner phones. She destroyed the one she used to talk to him, and switched to the other.

She cleared all traces of being in the cabin, washed the cups and left.

Funny thing, while she drove in early morning traffic, she wasn't thinking about all the things she should've remembered from his plans. She recalled their talk from the first night they were together, in Chesterfield Inn. _If something talks like a duck, walks like a duck_ … That was her cue.

And she remembered, word by word, what he said: _Immediate reaction to suspicious things. One who hesitates, dies. Okay, mostly gets arrested, but you know what I mean. If something feels wrong, then it usually is wrong. Act at once, think later. Even if you're mistaken, it's better to make premature moves, than be late with the right reaction._ The memory was so vivid; she could hear his warm drawl as if he sat next to her, and her throat clenched.

She hovered somewhere between 'everything will be just fine' and 'he is dead and my life is over'.

 _Don't cry_. _Do something, but don't cry_.

There was one more thing she could do. It was also strictly forbidden, but she had to know. She slowed down and typed his number into the new phone. She held her breath and pressed dial.

The call went straight to voice mail.

His phone was turned off or dead – a thing he would never do on his will in this situation. She took one shaky breath, and pressed the gas pedal.

She didn't need anything more. She had learned her lesson: listen to him when he warns about the things, dangerous things – or you could kill him.

Something was up on all fronts. She was being monitored, and he had said that Hardison reported their action being monitored, too. Someone clearly connected the dots and made a move.

 _What if the hitter was to go down first_?

She gripped the wheel tighter and tried not to let out a small meep.

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No point in cursing truck drivers who were passing by him, bathing him over and over again. He wouldn't stop for the crazy hitchhiker either – a man with a small tree in his hands, in the middle of nowhere.

When daylight finally dispersed night shadows – after almost an hour of walking – he saw the vast hillsides around him. Somewhere before the crash he calculated he had about forty miles to LA, not to mention twenty more through the city until he reached the cabin or her apartment. At least thirty miles went through this, with no settlements, not even a random lonely house.

A curtain of rain distorted everything, but he could see lighter shade far, far away. The clouds over the Pacific were thin. It could even be sunny in LA, for a change.

It was probably around seven a.m. He had no means to know, and his inner clock was messed up.

Everything else was screwed up big time. If Florence followed his instructions, she initiated the five-level danger protocol and left the cabin. She also changed her phone. She would return to her apartment and wait for further instructions. That was a change he made when he observed her apartment to see how safe it was. If she lived somewhere on her own, he would instruct her not to return there, but it was in the studio complex. If she was with C4, she would have only a trailer. CBS treated their writers and stars much better. The building she lived in was heavily secured for privacy more than for safety, with a green metal fence all around, and cameras covering every inch of the fence. A thirteen foot high fence was high enough to prevent climbing. She would be okay there until he returned.

He tried not to think about that unknown someone who monitored her – and most of all, he tried not to think that at the same time the team was monitored, too. Cameras for facial recognition in that pipe facility meant targeted search, search for them. Yet, it _could_ be a coincidence.

For the sake of his mental state, it _had_ to be a coincidence.

He trudged through the heavy drops, pretty much astounded with the fact that he tried to tone down his paranoia. Love did terrible things to his thinking. In every other situation he would use the paranoia to help him cover all possible fuck ups, to keep himself alerted and ready for everything. Now, he was trying to calm his fears down, to survive the next hour with his mind relatively intact.

Either that, or stepping in the middle of the road with a tiny hope that the next truck would stop before hitting him.

George hummed a quiet _told-you-so, told-you-so_ tune.

This love shit sucked big time.

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The worst part of this was that she was alone, and she had to think like a hitter, a mastermind, and a grifter, all at the same time. She did that for the last six years while writing her show, she reminded herself – but that was a fiction. Real life, especially a Boston part of it, showed her how little use she had of all her accumulated knowledge.

Yet, she had something important. She was creative. _Fake it till you make it_.

She left her car outside of the studio complex where her apartment was. Orion was sleeping and he didn't even notice they stopped.

Sun-glasses in a drizzle would only draw attention to her, but she found a scarf in her trunk and wrapped it around her head to hide her curls. The next thing – find a place for an ambush.

One small café facing the main gate of CBS Studios was perfect. She sat by the window, watching the complex entrance. Down the road, she could see the part of her building with the front door. People going in and out of the building were too far away to be recognized.

The main problem here was the timing. If someone – she decided to call him a Big Bad Antagonist, BBA – unleashed a synchronized action at all of them, that meant only one thing. BBA would know where she lived.

No way would she return to the apartment and risk getting caught or killed. Not before she… she stopped her frantic thinking as a new idea jumped up.

She glanced around. _Only three people and a waitress_. Early Saturday morning wasn't a good time for a crowd. She waited until the waitress went to the other side of the bar, and took her new phone.

She dialed 911.

"Help!" She hushed in an alarmed, high whisper. "I'm watching someone breaking in. It's Beverly Boulevard, ohmygod, it's in CBS studio… the building with apartments! I'm peeking through the fence…they climbed and opened the window on an apartment on the second floor and jumped in. Screams! I hear screams inside!"

A young woman's voice calmly said, "Beverly Boulevard? I'm sending someone, but I have a few more questions. Which side of the building is the broken window? The side facing the street or the back?"

"Street! To the fence!"

"How many people? Do you see any weapons?"

"Saw two shadows – they're moving inside now. Maybe weapons, I don't know. Maybe more people-"

"Can I have your name? Would you consider meeting an officer?"

That was a thing she had to wiggle out from. "Yes, of course," she quickly said. "I'll wait right here and…." She let her voice trail off into silence.

"Ma'am? Everything all right?"

She lowered her voice. "One of them peered out – he looked _at me_! Ohmygod I can't stay here! Sorry!"

She quickly cut the call and huffed. Sophie would probably roll her eyes at this lousy performance, but she was satisfied.

This burner phone was from the bag Eliot had provided, full of old phone models. One day she would tell him how Hardison-y he had sounded when he explained the difference between new and old phones; the older models didn't have a location chip that would allow this operator to track her. She could stay here without worrying about patrol tapping on her shoulder.

She knew they would probably try to call her back after they reached a false burglary scene, but she had time to decide whether she would turn her phone off or not.

If someone was in her apartment waiting for her, they will have the time of their lives while explaining that to cops.

She waived to the waitress to bring more coffee.

Every sip fell heavy on her stomach, as worry grew into fear. No amount of self-control could push it back to the simple worry – every minute that passed cemented it.

She decided to wait here exactly one hour. If Eliot was all right, he would come here after her, knowing she left the cabin.

She checked the time. It was seven a.m. He was one entire hour late already.

Her hands started to shake. She blamed coffee.

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In the end, it wasn't a truck that stopped, but an old pick-up with a middle age couple in it. He told them a heart wrenching story of an anniversary ruined with a car crash. George even looked like a present, radiating cuteness all around. The tree's eye-lashing at Phil didn't work, but it surely melted Phyllis.

"We will be in LA in less than an hour, dear," Phyllis said, nudging him with coffee from a thermos flask. He took it; it was warm. He shivered uncontrollably for the last half an hour.

"I w-want to buy your phone."

"No need for that. Use it to call whoever you want."

He pulled out his wallet and pushed a bunch of dripping banknotes to her. "No Ma'am, I really need to have it. I'll give her that number so she can contact me."

Phil eyed the money, reached over Phyllis and took it. "Sold."

"Thank you." He didn't have to fake the relief in his voice.

He called Florence. Nothing, just as he suspected. She followed the procedure and changed the phones. That meant she would see it through the end and go to her apartment. _That doesn't mean she is dead and her phone smashed. Stop it_.

He checked the number of the phone he held, then called his flower shop. "Angy, I have a huge order…"

Area code was three digits, and phone number seven more… ten in total. "Write it down. Six daisies, six geraniums, one iris, six lilies, three magnolias, five orchids, five roses, three sunflowers, five tulips, four violas. Don't add anything – no leaves or branches. Colors aren't important, you decide, but make it look good with blue paper. Make it an urgent delivery. Like, as in now."

Blue paper was a code for numbers. Florence only had to count the flowers of each sort, and first letters in names of the flowers would give her the correct order of numbers – starting with the first in alphabet and going up.

In less than a half an hour, she would have his new number and call him.

 _If she was okay_ , added a small, whiny voice in his head. If whoever monitored her didn't make their moves in those hours he lost during this night and this disastrous morning. _If she was alive_ , and not dead with a dead phone.

He glued a smile on his face and accepted a towel Phyllis gave him to dry his hair.

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Half an hour passed quicker than Florence expected. She couldn't see clearly what was going on at the false crime scene. Delivery trucks went in and out, blocking her view of two Police cars parked in front of her building. When they drove off, she left the café to see them better, but she didn't notice anyone on the back seats.

Maybe she called the cops too early. What if BBA's guys were right now deciding to visit her?

The rain stopped while she was musing, and the waitress opened a terrace. Sitting there with her hair covered sounded safe enough, but she bought newspapers and hid behind them. She needed only a black coat to complete a scene from cheap spy movies.

She marked eight o'clock with her eighth coffee. _Two hours late_.

He didn't come.

And that was it. It was pointless to stay here and increase the chance to be seen and found. She could do nothing here, alone. But she knew who could.

She had to get to Portland and the Leverage team. Nate would know what to do and how to find him.

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Phil and Phyllis left them at the small rent-a-car in Ventura. He took the first car available, put George on the back seat and set the GPS. It showed almost sixty miles to her apartment in CBS Studio complex. Hour and a half of driving without traffic; he could count on two hours at least.

Eight had passed. He couldn't be there before ten. And she didn't call, though his delivery should've arrived already.

What if she misread his numbers, or Angy mixed up roses and violas? Everything was possible. Small fuckups were almost always the explanation; there _really_ wasn't any need of thinking about her dead or taken. _Really. Seriously_.

It took an extreme mental effort to decide to wait another thirty minutes. It took much more to keep under the speed limit when all in him screamed to step on it and kill everyone – and everything – that stood in his way.

He gave in after ten minutes and called Angy.

"Yes, Sir, we sent the bouquet immediately, but the delivery returned. Billy said he couldn't deliver the flowers to that apartment because Police stopped him. They had just arrived at the crime scene in that building and they didn't let him pass, so he returned. If you want he can try…"

Her voice trailed off when he lowered his hand with the phone. The car continued without any input from him as he stared blindly.

He always thought it was medically impossible for the heart to stop beating for seconds. Now he knew better.

He passed through three intersections not realizing he was driving at all. Only when he almost bumped into the stopped cars at a red light, he started breathing again.

He took the phone and dialed a number.

"Hardison," he said. He barely recognized his own voice; strangled, toneless whisper. "We have a Situation."

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Hardison's yawning was so wide that Sophie fled to the kitchen so not to see him anymore. Nate was the only one who knew why their hacker seemed unable to focus on anything that early Saturday morning. They didn't tell the girls they both were up almost until down. _Especially not why_.

Parker stumbled across the office with a bowl of cereal in her hands, dressed in a combination of pajamas and sweatpants. Nate got used to her 'walking breakfast routine' since they came to Portland. He also envied them both a little; it was nice when he only had to climb a few stairs to the office in Boston.

Parker moved a few plants standing in her way. Hardison didn't notice. Nate hoped the hacker wouldn't test his sprinklers again based on the old position of plants.

"Francouer is charged," Hardison said. "We'll soon find out more about bail money – I guess during the day. I'm trying to find more about that facility with the pipes. The green goo goes under the name Lithobates 042983 Catesbeianus. It sounds Latin and I'll work on it later. And I'm looking for any connection between our last four jobs."

So, Hardison also noticed something iffy spreading over their last month's jobs.

Nate took a remote and clicked it towards the big screen, pulling up a document he'd been working on for hours.

"The first job," he started. "We can call it-"

"The Drag Queen Job," Hardison jumped in. "The second is The Hospital Torture Job, and the third is The Butt-Deadly Elevator Job."

Nate shot him a glare. "The first job," he started again, "will be Drag Queen One. The second will be Hospital Two, and the third will be Elevator Three. This last one can be Green Goo Four."

"Your lack of poetic creativity astounds me."

"You'll live." Nate zoomed in on two documents. "Here's the list of clients with backgrounds. The other list is a little more thorough – a list with our marks and affiliates, along with locations, properties, accounts. Run everything through your searches and try to find connections."

"I'm already on it." Hardison raised his tablet and waved it. "Though, Miss Bridget from Hospital Two, who was fed with the wrong drug during her hip replacement, can hardly have anything in common with CEO of Ushi Gaeru Japan Conglomerate and owner of the building full of those deadly elevators from Elevator Three. Maybe we are seeing ghosts."

Well, those ghosts breathed loudly behind his shoulder. Nate scrolled down the lists. Hundreds of names, connected only with the Leverage team, nothing more. And yet, he felt a translucent veil over all of them, giving them all the same dimmed nuance.

Hardison took the remote and documents disappeared, revealing the black screen with many floating data sequences. "I'm hacking Francouer's files right now to find out what the green goo really is...ingredients, or components, or… whatever. For now I have only a bunch of chemicals. We'll need an expert in chemistry to decipher-" Ringing of his phone cut him off and he let out one exasperated sigh.

Nate used the opportunity and snatched the remote back, bringing back his files over the hacker's data.

The silence warned him.

He looked at Hardison. The hacker held the phone on his ear, listening. His face was losing color with every second that passed.

"Okay, got it. I'll call you back ASAP." Hardison lowered the phone and took one long breath. "There is a decent chance," he started carefully, "that we will have to pack. Now. And fly to LA."

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"And don't forget your toothbrush!" Florence tapped on the bathroom door. An unintelligible mumbling came from the locked bathroom.

Buck definitely wasn't a morning person. It took her seven minutes – and being so aware of time, she knew that exactly – before he finally nodded his understanding. After the initial banging on his door, and her frenetically fast outpour of facts, it was in fact a good result.

She repeated everything two times, and finished with, "And I know you don't have any plans for this weekend. You'll enjoy it. It'll be _fun_."

Running water stopped and he walked out, fully dressed and with his three whips in correct position. His eyes were still glazed, but he had his toothbrush. "Run that by me again," he said. "Why you didn't think of normal causes for being late? Like, flat tire and phone running out of-"

"Buck, that way of thinking put us in trouble in Vermont. In his world, there are no normal causes for being late. If I see something suspicious, I have to act as if it's confirmed danger. No waiting and trying to find mitigating explanations. People tend to lull themselves in false sense of security. Rationalization is deadly in this case."

He squinted while processing her words. "And why can't I just give you money if you need-"

She bit her lip not to growl at him. "You are a star," she said slowly. "You have experience in incognito travel, to hide from paparazzi. Are you following me?" She waited until he nodded. "I don't need money. But if I buy plane tickets on my name, it will ping all possible searches. You have special treatment with all companies, reserved for VIPs for the same reason – you can buy tickets without your name recorded, so no hungry journalists would wait for you at airports."

"That's true." He looked at the toothbrush as if not remembering why it was in his hand and sighed. "Okay. We are going to Portland. Two tickets."

"And Orion." She waved to the carrier.

"And Orion." He nodded. "But you _will_ pay for this. Next weekend you'll go with me – I'm visiting my mother."

"Oh." They called her a Bible Belt Dragon. She swallowed. "Okay. That's fair. Quid pro quo."

"Great. " He managed to smile. "We are ready to go."

"Shoes."

"What? Is that some sort of code in his – your – new world?"

She motioned to his slippers.

"Ah, that, yes. Be back in a minute. Dear Lord, I need a coffee." He wandered off to the bedroom.

She took a deep breath and exhaled it as slowly as she could. It didn't help to ease the tight knot her stomach was tied into.

One more thing to do before they left, she reminded herself. She took the card from her wallet. She carried it with her for more than nine months, as a reminder, maybe even as a warning to herself.

She dialed the Interpol Headquarters in Portland, a direct number.

It rang only two times before he answered.

She felt a small, evil smile on her lips, and let it pour into her words, knowing he would feel it. "Good morning, James."

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	4. Chapter 4

If any of you wants to broach the subject of '3-4 chapters max', from description of this story, don't waste your time. You should've known from the beginning that I'd slip again.

Yet! Good news - I have only chapter five after this one. Not because I couldn't write more, but because I have to start on Secret Santa Exchange. I have only 8 days to confirm I have the first draft, and I don't have even an idea yet. (Don't tell Telaryn and Fleur :D )

Kudos to Ginipig who was the only one who noticed the hint in the previous chapter, about plants, and guessed what might happen in this one.

Special thanks to Smooth Doggie for betaing this, and for relentlessly teaching me new words.

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One more thing... after reading this chapter, you can go to my profile and watch again the video trailer For The Brown Dutch Job. I want to see what you can catch there.

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Chapter 4.

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At least the latest twist in their morning stopped Hardison's yawning. Nate could hardly keep up with sets of searches, images, CCTV, and police reports which flew across the screens, under the spell of Hardison's frantic fingers. Parker was packing; he reminded himself to check her backpack for grenades. Sophie hovered over Hardison's shoulder with a barrage of rapid suggestions, questions and explanations, all at the same time.

The same feeling of controlled panic must have been dominant in the execution of the invasion of Normandy, too.

He withdrew to the small working table placed behind their main desk and pulled out a sheet of paper. He stared at it for three minutes, before then drawing a diagram using two lines; one for Eliot and one for Florence. After a minute he added a time line. After another, he put dots on the lines, and followed with the time.

He rubbed his chin to erase the smirk he felt forming, schooled his face into serious concentration mode and said, "Hardison. Leave all searches and just concentrate on the police report from Florence's apartment."

"I did that. I've set specific searches and now we can only wait until they spit something useful out. In the meantime, I worked on our green goo problem. The Latin name of it that I mentioned - Lithobates 042983 Catesbeianus – means it originates from an animal. It's an American Bullfrog." Hardison pulled a picture of a huge, annoyed-looking frog sitting on the rock. "Still don't know what the numbers are for, but I'm working on it."

"Bullfrog?" Sophie sounded as if she'd imagined thousands of frogs grinded into a gooey, greenish paste. Nate had to admit that a similar image went through his mind, too. "Francouer wasn't connected to any frogs. What is going on in there?"

Hardison shrugged. "Right now, I don't care. We have an imminent crisis to solve. Nate, I can hack Police reports regarding Flo's apartment while we're driving to airport. I have a plane wait-"

"No."

"No?"

"No. We are staying here until we have more clues."

Sophie let out a strangled yelp. "But Nate! We have to be close if-"

"No. If needed, we'll be there. But we can do more from here. Now, Hardison, you said you found Flo's car abandoned near her apartment. If she is okay, she is hiding somewhere. If she has been taken, those who've taken her will be careful not to show her face anywhere." He didn't mention any possibility of her being dead, and he knew they noticed that deliberate omission. "That means it would be impossible to find her by searching any of the cameras. Even if she is currently roaming freely through LA's busy streets, it would take days upon days to find one solitary blonde among the other few-hundreds of thousands of blondes in LA, right?"

Hardison's shoulders slumped a little while he contemplated his response. "Yes and no," he said with a careful glance at Sophie and Parker. "There's always that-"

"So you won't search for her," Nate said. "She left her place to meet Eliot for a long weekend or maybe even longer. What would she take with her?"

"How the hell would I know what women-"

"Orion," Parker said with a glint in her eyes. "She would take Orion with her."

Nate nodded. "Precisely," he said. "We don't search for a blonde, there are thousands of them out there. We search for a white cat in a kitty-carrier."

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"Good morning, James."

Florence listened to the silence on the other end of the line. It lasted six seconds before Sterling finally said, "Good morning, Florence." His tone sang ' _not you_ _again_ ' as if he'd spelled it out.

She put him on speakerphone the moment she sat in Buck's car, so Buck wouldn't need a summary.

"Who is there with you?" Do you have someone unauthorized there, she translated his sentence.

"I'm driving, you're on speakerphone." She motioned to Buck to keep silent.

It'd only been a month since they parted in Boston, but time had dulled her feelings a little. She had hated him and liked him with equal strength. Now, listening to that dry British accent, she realized that 'liking him' took the lead.

"I need your help," she said. No time for pleasantries.

"And what makes you think you are in a position to ask that of me?"

"You are a man of law, bound to help citizens in trouble. And you like me – maybe even more than I like you." She took a two-second pause. "And don't roll your eyes. You know it's true."

"What kind of help do you need, citizen?"

"Eliot's disappeared."

Then she heard it; a low snicker he didn't even bother to hide. She gritted her teeth down on her snappish reply. _Easy, easy_. That reaction was expected.

"I've warned you about him and that deadly bunch," he said. "They will ruin you. Nate will kill them all, and himself, and if you're near, you too. Stay away from-"

"Just as you've stayed away from Nate? Eliot told me you jumped Nate and Sophie only a few days after we left you back at Mass Gen. You think you're immune to them, and it's safe for you to offer them to work for you?"

"I can handle Nate. You can't, little writer."

"Yes, you're right." She smiled. "I can't handle Nate."

"Eh?" He followed that sound with a tilted head and a raised eyebrow, she knew that.

"Because I don't know where to find him. Don't smirk."

"And you want me to…?"

"Listen. I'm heading to LAX. I'll be in Portland in two hours. Eliot kept me away from the team-"

"Surprisingly reasonable gesture from one of-"

"- but he disappeared this morning. I'm afraid something nasty is happening, and I have to get Nate. The thing is… Eliot never told me where their base is. Security reasons. The Portland part, I figured out myself – with your help – and that's confirmed. I also know they are in some sort of food business because of that oca thing on the menu Hardison had trouble with, while we were all in Vermont. I could search all the restaurants, hotels, motels, snack bars in Portland, if I had perhaps ten days for it. I don't have them. I need Nate, and I need him now. You found them; you know where they are. Give me the address. Please."

Buck opened his mouth, but she waved to silence him.

Thinking on the other side of the line was loud. No, she corrected herself; Sterling never thought. He plotted.

"Or else…?" he finally said.

"Or else I'm coming to visit you in your Headquarters. I'll chat for hours with Amanda and the other girls, and when you throw me out, I'll camp on your doorstep. The press will be delighted to see why a famous author might protest at Interpol's front gate. Now close your eyes… can you see me marching up and down in front of your door, with a sign in my hands? Do you want to know what would be written on it?"

"I won't give you any address, because I don't know what you are talking about. Pathetic threats don't work on me, Florence. You can't even enter my building, and you know it. Speaking of buildings…we don't monitor your apartments in Boston anymore. That building isn't on our list for surveillance, which means nobody would know, or care, what you do when you are there."

Oh. That was important. _This is a gift_. He knew what he was giving her with that information: _if you are there with Eliot, Interpol won't bother you_. Why that, and not the address she needed? And why had he said that so formally, so…

Damn. Realization hit her in a second. She called the direct Interpol line. All calls must've been recorded.

She sighed, feeling the flush of pink in her cheeks. "I'm not, really, a spy material, am I?"

"No, you are not. But I see that you're learning fast." _So help us God_ was murmured so low that she thought she'd imagined it.

Yes, she was learning. "Now we're done with all things official," she chirped with all the enthusiasm she could muster, "tell me, how are you? Your health? What are you working on?"

"My health is fine, thank you for asking. I had an excellent treatment – and if I hear you giggle, I'll hang up. Work is slow these days, nothing major going on, so I have time to take in a beer or two and relax after work."

If she had to choose one drink he would never consider, it would be beer. Her ears pricked up, and she switched with her tail. "I can't easily imagine you relaxing," she said.

"Portland is great for long walks. Peaceful city. Many bridges… and the port is also nice for walking."

"I'll have to try it, and if I have time, I'll drop by to see you, so maybe we can-"

"If you have to," a quick, gruff reply cut her off. "Only if you really have to. Now excuse me, I'm busy."

"Of course. And James… thank you."

"You're welcome."

The last words came even gruffer, but she just smiled.

"And now what?" Buck said when she ended the call. "You have nothing."

"Oh, I have everything. Give me your phone."

Her search lasted less than a minute. Sixty-seven breweries and brew pubs were scattered all over Portland. "He couldn't tell me directly," she said while scrolling through the list. "But I'm positive he never drinks beer. Or takes long romantic walks on bridges or ports. Don't you remember how it works? You said hundreds of similar ciphers with key words over the past five years."

"Not really. I just shut my mind and blab my lines."

"I'll kill you off, I swear."

"Not before we visit my mother – you won't get off that easy."

"I can give you a female love interest and make your life miserab- I got it! This must be it – Bridgeport Brew Pub. Only one that has bridge, port, beer and Portland."

"So he really helped. He didn't sound helpful."

"That's because I slammed a chair into his head and knocked him down. Or maybe it's because he caught a bullet because of us. Or maybe… nah, that's enough. Suffice to say he likes me." She thought briefly, staring at the picture of a huge building with the pub. "Maybe I should cancel my order with that flower shop. While you were in the bathroom, I sent a flowery message for Nate, and ordered the same bouquet to be sent to every restaurant, hotel and pub in Portland. I hope I remembered all the meanings right. The message should say: _Danger – Eliot disappeared, maybe dead or taken – I'm coming to you – I am probably followed – find Eliot and help him_."

She didn't know even if Eliot had told Nate about the flower warnings, much less could Nate decipher their meaning.

Buck slowed down.

She quickly looked up, half expecting another shit that might put yet another obstacle in her way, but they were entering LAX parking lot.

She kept her fingers crossed, hoping she wouldn't have to use Sterling's parting gift - his offer to call him if the shit hit the fan. _Only if you really have to_. No, Nate would take over and everything would be miraculously solved. That was his job. Nate provided happy endings.

She desperately needed one of them now.

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Eliot turned the heat up to max, but even that couldn't dry his wet clothes. Chill settled deep in his bones. A different kind of chill rested comfortably in his mind: _a very distinctive one_.

He had an hour's drive to Florence's apartment, but only thirty minutes to their cabin – and that was one of the toughest decisions in his life. Everything in him pushed him to go directly to the apartment, to see what happened with the Police.

Yet, that was exactly what would be expected from him. If someone had her – or killed her – it was because of him. She didn't have any enemies. His going there would be a mistake. He would be doing what they, the unknown they, wanted him to do.

He was so distraught that he had to stop the car.

First of all, he had to stop thinking about her being dead. That simply wasn't possible, wasn't an option at all. She might've been taken, but she was okay. Only that way could he be sure he would be able to function at all.

 _Taken, but okay_.

Hardison was working on the Police side of it, and he would soon send him what he found out. Before that, going to the apartment was futile. The hacker would, also, need more info. The moment he confirmed she'd been attacked – _and taken but okay_ – they would start an investigation. Every little bit of info would be precious then, as possible clues.

He started the engine and turned left. When he turned his back on her apartment, the tearing pain in his heart became almost unbearable. _Logic. Think, Spencer_. He needed logic and a cool head now. Any sentimentality would only serve to mess him up even more, and lessen her chances.

While he waited for Hardison's results, he could use that time and go do the cabin part. That would save him a lot of time in the end – he would probably have to go there in search of clues anyway. This way, he would have something ready when Hardison called him.

He could also do one more thing. He called the flower shop.

"Angy, tell Bill to repeat the delivery. Seventy-two is a very important client, and I don't want to lose her. That bouquet has to be delivered today, and I want to know exactly when it will be possible. Tell him to ask the cops or neighbors what happened and when might be a good time to come again."

Angy let out one squeaky sound.

"What was that supposed to mean?"

"Bill returned with that bouquet and I used the flowers," she said. She sounded breathless. "We've run out of flowers completely!"

 _This isn't happening_. Was there any, _any_ damn thing that could go normally today? He pinched the bridge of his nose before calming his voice. "You are a flower shop. How the hell can you run out of flow-"

"We received a huge order. The huge order – and we are working like crazy to arrange all those bouquets and send them. I mean, we never before-"

"Look, I don't care. Buy flowers, grow them or steal them, whatever, just send Bill with it to ask the cops what happened. Call me immediately when he finds out."

"Okay." She sighed and cut the call.

He set the GPS to their cabin.

George was silent.

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"You don't seem worried, Nate," Sophie's words stirred Nate from thinking, and he looked up. She was dressed for a trip. Her shoes had low, comfortable heels.

"I can neither confirm or deny that," he said. If he was right about Eliot's and Florence's trajectories on his timeline, this was only a major fuckup. Yet, he wasn't willing to diminish the veil covering everything they'd done by now. At least, not until Hardison confirmed that Florence was safe and sound.

"We are ready to go the moment you decide," she continued. "Hardison only has to pack a few more laptops. Now that I mention that… maybe he can work on all of this from Lucille, too. Perhaps if we park just a moment from our plane, that would spare us at least a thirty minute drive to the airport."

"Not yet, Sophie. Not until we're sure we will fl-"

"I have something!" Hardison called. "Still nothing on Florence and Orion, but those searches are in full swing. I used that time to work on the green goo, and I solved a few things. Some of the chemicals used in making it are artificial colors, so it's likely that no real frogs were grinded into that. That's why it smelled of roses. As I said before, that's it. I need a good chemist."

"No, you don't," Parker said out of nowhere. She marched across the office to the back room. They could see her through the glass wall, rummaging through something on the floor.

Sophie and Hardison exchanged worried glances. Hardison cleared his throat. "What do you have in mind, momma? I'd rather not see you messing with anything connected with chemistry; not that I don't trust you, but- what's that?"

Parker returned with Sophie's shoes from the previous day's expedition into the pipe facility. They still had a layer of greenish goo smeared up past the heels. Nate raised his hand as quickly as he could, but it was too late. She scratched a little piece off the shoes and licked it.

"Euww!" Both Hardison and Sophie yelped. Nate didn't. Hundreds of potentially lethal chemicals ran through his mind so fast that they stopped his every verbal expression.

Parker grinned. "This is nice," she said. "Hardison, you should try it."

Hardison took a step back. "Put that thing down, Parker. You don't know what-"

Wrong move. Her smile grew evil. Hardison recognized his mistake and retreated to the other side of their working console.

"No, Hardison, you _should_ try it," Parker said. Her quick steps followed the hacker; he had nowhere to go except to climb upon the screens.

"Guys, guys," Nate said. "Let's concentrate on-"

Nobody paid any attention to him. Hardison evaded the shoe pushed into his face, feigned a move and ran full speed into a mess of plants and sprinklers lined up under the screens.

His foot caught one sprinkler and moved it. And that was it. All hell broke loose; he must've triggered some chain reaction when he set off the first sprinkler. In one split second, dozens of water lines sprayed him from head to toe and pushed him into the wall. Sophie's laughter stopped when the water changed color and direction; she dove into Parker's chair, where the backrest protected her from the worst. But not before she was also soaked.

Nate took two quick steps behind the glass wall, but the others were too far away to take similar shelter. Sprinklers rotated completely out of control, changing colors every second. Parker's laughter was almost covered by the loud hissing of raging water. She bent under the working console, still with the offending shoe in her hand, and crawled towards Hardison. The hacker couldn't see shit with all the water spraying different colors in his face, but she yanked his leg and pulled him down. Lower water lines weren't that strong. He managed to crawl on all four to the back room with laptop that should've controlled all this mess and prevent it.

Nate could see him typing, but nothing happened. Only when he slammed the laptop shut did the water stop.

Hardison took one sloshy step back into the main office. "My laptops… my searches…" He choked out the word, glancing around the destroyed room. "My data…my-" A nudge at his back stopped him, and Parker raised the shoe to him.

"You _should_ try this."

"Hardison," Nate said before the hacker could articulate his reply. "You have two laptops back in there, and an entire console in Lucille. Just continue where you stopped. But do it now." He looked at Parker and the strange eagerness in her waiting. "Parker, bring me that shoe."

She hurried to him and he scratched a little of green sticky stuff. Sophie peeked over the chair with disbelief in her eyes.

He sighed and put it in his mouth.

 _I'll be damned_.

"Hardison," he said. "You _should_ try this."

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Buck had only come home three hours before she showed up on his doorstep, unceremoniously waking him up, so he dozed off two minutes after their plane took off.

She wasn't that lucky. She wanted, but she couldn't sleep the world away.

Two long hours aboard this flight would put her through a most terrible test. With nothing to do and no means with which to divert her mind from her fear, she was left alone with her thoughts.

The old Florence, the one before she had first seen Eliot standing in his elephant and daisy pajamas in her corridor, would probably curl up in a ball of desperation and wail. The new one, forged during those tense days embedded with the Leverage team would probably… well, curl up in a ball of desperation, too, but she wouldn't wail. Wailing spent precious energy, and she wasn't going to waste her resources.

She felt her necklace; the crystal circle was cold to touch, but it reminded her of all the changes she had been through.

Orion watched her from his seat, squinting with one eye through the slits in his carrier.

"I know," she said. "I'm working on the happy ending. Tragic endings are only tragic endings if they happen right before the closing credits. We are far away from that. For now, everything bad that happens is just a plot twist, nothing more."

She clutched the necklace tighter and started plotting the sequel.

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"I will buy it, I swear! I will buy that entire facility; I will buy it, it will be mine and only mine. Mine! Did I mention I'm going to buy it?"

"Yeah, Hardison, you might have mentioned it," Nate said with a sigh. That didn't dissuade the pacing hacker.

Nate turned to Parker and Sophie who had changed into dry clothes and were seated in their chairs, the only dry place left in the office. He noticed they'd both changed into black clothes; clearly someone wasn't convinced that they wouldn't have to go on a last minute rescue mission, and they wanted to be prepared.

Hardison sped up his long stride to and fro. "Can you imagine all those pipes, full? Full, Parker! Liters... no, hectoliters of it within my reach! All those pipes, Parker! Full! All those pipes, fu-"

"Will you please stop repeat-"

"Full of liquid gummy frogs!" Hardison spread his arms, not even glancing at Sophie who sighed and closed her mouth. "Gummy frogs flowing all around me! I will buy it, I swear, I will buy that entire facility and it will be only mine! I will buy it and all those pipes, full of-"

"Enough!" Nate had to slam his hand on the table to draw his attention. Hardison did turn his head to him, but his eyes were still glazed over. "We got it, you'll buy it. Now stop."

"But pipes-"

"But Florence. Searches. LA trouble. Eliot. Ground control to Major Hardison – are you with us?"

Hardison first lowered his gaze to Nate's shoes, as if studying the amount of lick-able green goo on them, then shook his head and nodded. "All right. I'm here. I only have to change and-"

Parker raised a handful of clothes waiting for him. Black shirt, black trousers, black jacket.

"Yeah, thank you. And then, we'll go to Lucille and continue with our work until this mess dries up. My computer in Lucille is always mirrored with those that I have here, so my searches didn't stop. That way, too, we'll be closer to the airport, if needed." Hardison unbuttoned his jacket and shirt, and checked his pockets.

Nate could clearly see the moment he froze. He pulled out the hand with a dripping phone in it.

"This," Hardison said slowly and clearly, "is very bad."

"Why?" Parker frowned. "You have many of those."

"But only this one had Eliot's new number in its memory. I can't call him now."

Sophie got up first, so Nate didn't have to hurry them to move. "He would find a way to contact us, Hardison," she said. "Let's go now. While we were busy showering, maybe your searches found out something crucial about Florence."

That sped them all up. Hardison and Parker ran to and fro collecting every piece of equipment dry enough to be taken with them, putting them all in two big bags. They all rushed to Lucille parked in a back yard.

Nate drove, Sophie took shotgun.

"You were right, Soph," Hardison said while they were still in their street. "We have news. Good news, and good news. Which one do you want first?"

Nate gave him one deadly stare in the rear view mirror.

"Okay, okay, no need to get nasty. Good news numero uno is that the attempted burglary at Florence's apartment has been classified as a false alarm. No casualties, no victims, no stolen property. And, numero due – I have five 'white cat' results on my cameras and overall searches. Three of them are within LAX data."

Hardison's grin was the answer to his unspoken question, but Nate nevertheless asked it, "And one of them is assigned to a passenger Portland-bound, perhaps?"

"Yep. Travelling with Mr. and Mrs. Robinson. That would be a little confusing for everybody except for me – hell, that would even lead Chaos into a dead end, so praise me - but yours truly checked the seat numbers. Every airplane company has a few seats in first class reserved for unexpected VIPs who are often travelling incognito. Our lovely pair with the cat took three of those. Robinsons are false names – she used someone from her show to smuggle her under the radar. Now tell me, how did you know we should follow the cat? Because if I had tried to track Florence, I would never have stumbled upon this."

"Pixie has sure learned how to hide," he said. "If Eliot tortured the poor woman with only a fifth of what I suspect he did, even bounty hunters would have trouble finding her if she wanted to disappear."

"And lest we forget she knew a lot even before she met us." Sophie threw a disapproving glance at him.

He ignored it. "ETA, Hardison?"

"She'll land in about an hour."

"Okay. Continue with the Francouer searches and find out how the hell he managed to fill his facility with liquid gummy frogs. And why. Have you found the manufacturer of that facial recognition camera?"

"Found it. But tracking the serial number takes a little more time. Be patient."

"However, now we know why they have that strange name for the green goo. Lithobates 042983 Catesbeianus," Parker said. "American bullfrog – a code name for liquid gummy frogs. Minus the number."

Indeed. Nate met Hardison's eyes in the rear mirror again. "And work on other connections, too."

With those frogs, their fourth cursed job had more chance not to be connected with the other three. There were no frogs involved with Drag Queen, not even anything green. Nothing for the Hospital Two job either. The Elevator Three, with Japanese and elevators, the least of all the three could be connected with the frogs of any kind.

He needed only one last thing, one tiny little detail that might show him a connection through all of them, nothing more needed. Trouble was, it was evading him currently, but once he got it, he would know it was time for some serious plotting. And, he'd soon discover if someone was messing with his game.

He still had time for that. Now, however, it was time to start collecting his weary wayfarers and bring them all home.

He pressed down harder on the gas pedal and took the turn towards the airport.

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There was no sign of forced entry at the cabin. Eliot circled around the garden twice, checking the perimeter before he repeated the same within the cabin. The front door was locked.

Dozens of little things he'd positioned and marked all over the rooms when they left it the last time remained untouched, and so with some accuracy he could tell Florence's movements within the confines of their hideout.

She had only entered the hall, living room, and kitchen. Two coffee cups were washed and put to dry. _Two cups_. She wouldn't bring someone with her, not at her own free will. If she had been forced to bring someone here, they wouldn't be drinking coffee. Unless she did it on purpose to leave him a trail. Or, he admitted to himself, she made coffee for him while waiting for his arrival, like she always did. Both were equally possible.

He was never good with uncertainty. His ability to function with two or more different possibilities at the same time, balancing them in his mind and acting without knowing for sure which one was true, was sometimes none to zero. He had to know, to have a clear course of action. Strategists could tiptoe with an unclear picture until it cleared up; he couldn't. He was a tactician. When on step A, he needed to know what step B was. After that, nothing mattered; he could go there in a straight line, or follow a labyrinth of webs and little paths.

He needed a damn target, and all he had was a fistful of elusive mist all around him, that was ever changing.

He found a few white cat hairs on the porch hammock. She'd brought Orion with her.

There were no tire marks or skid marks on the driveway. He taught her how to do that when starting a car, in order to leave a message that something was wrong. She also had dozens of other little signs she could've left around for him to find. He found none.

Whoever was after both of them and possibly the team, only knew about her apartment and not this place. He surely had done everything he could to keep it below the radar.

He went to the bedroom and found new clothes to change from his wet ones, and added a jacket to keep the chill away.

Tired, bruised and with a tickling in his throat, he sat on the edge of the bed to think about what he might do next. He sneezed, and his brain painfully bounced off the inside of his skull. Yep, catching a cold was naturally the next step.

He knew that Hardison's searches couldn't be pushed any faster, but maybe the hacker had found something else relevant to this. He took out his phone and called him.

His call went directly to voice mail.

He stared at the phone in stark disbelief.

For more than five years, this hadn't happened even once. The phone was Hardison's working tool, and it was impossible to fathom him being without it. _Not even once_.

Maybe he'd simply clicked something wrong. He tried again, entering the number digit by digit.

The voice mail again. The phone was either turned off – and Hardison would never, ever turn his phone off - or destroyed.

His blood ran cold.

Eliot knew Hardison's number because the hacker rarely changed that mighty machine, instead opting to upgrade it constantly. Numbers for the others, well, that was a different story. He had told himself that he'd pay more attention and always memorize them each time Hardison gave them new phones with new numbers, and especially since their adventure in Knudsen's slaughterhouse. Only Parker knew Nate and Sophie's numbers back then. Of course he forgot about it, counting on Hardison to always be there with his phones and earbuds.

He didn't even know the number of the Bridgeport Brew Pub, but at least it was a legitimate business, listed and findable.

There could be many normal explanations for Hardison's dead phone. Maybe they triggered that damn water system again. Maybe he'd simply dropped it.

Nate said they wouldn't take a fifth job, so they were all safe and sound in the office, probably working on finding Florence for him. No reason for anything bad to happen there.

The fact he was trying to calm himself, finding numerous benign reasons for this, scared him the most.

He got up off the bed and started pacing up and down, clicking on the phone.

He found the brewery number and called, and a familiar voice answered immediately.

"Amy Palavi, Bridgeport Brew Pub. How can I help you?"

"Eliot here. Amy, I need Hardison ASAP – or any of them. Go to the back offi-"

"They left, all of them. I saw them leaving in a hurry with bags, dressed in black like ninjas. They drove off in that van of yours. What should I tell them when they return?"

"Just give them this number. Thank you."

All his calming himself instantly crumbled. They weren't safe in the office. Hardison's phone was likely destroyed, while they were God only knows where, doing something _._ _Dressed in black like ninjas._

He told Hardison that Florence was maybe taken less than an hour ago. They wouldn't just leave to do something else and abandon that search – unless it was something far more dangerous than Florence's fate. Or, maybe it was all connected. Perhaps Nate found out who had been monitoring them while they were investigating what had happened with Florence? What if they took off to solve that – without a hitter and protection - and fell into a trap?

 _Hardison never, ever, turned his phone off_.

Cold, gnawing fear constricted around his heart. Somebody made a move. And the team was without their hitter.

He sat on the bed, still holding the useless phone.

 _Simultaneous attacks. Florence taken, maybe dead. Team attacked, maybe dead_.

And their hitter, the one who should've protected them all, was stuck in the middle of nowhere, unable to reach any of them.

He stared at the phone in his hand, but he looked straight through it; he watched everything that he loved taken from him.

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	5. Chapter 5

This story was written mainly to set up all important things for The Brown Dutch Job. I had to set up the scene and show all important things, including the passing of the time. If I didn't do it, I would have to write five chapters of similar things before the real action in TBDJ.

If you haven't, now is the time to watch the trailer again – video is in my profile.

Big thanks to Smooth Doggie for betaing.

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Chapter 5.

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"I will have to hide you somewhere when we get close to the pub," Florence explained to Buck while they searched for the nearest rent-a-car outlet. Portland airport was smaller than she expected, but still a pretty busy place. "I don't know whether it's okay to bring someone unknown to the team, or not. Nate will have the last word about you."

"I thought only your boyfriend has issues with paranoia," he said. He carried Orion, using the carrier as a barrier between himself and any curious glances. Dark glasses helped him to hide. She'd also bought a pair – it was sunny in Portland, and rainy in LA. Clearly, the world had turned upside down. _In more ways than one_.

She fought hard not to show Buck how truly scared she was. Eliot's paranoia confirmed itself. What if he was right about the team being monitored and maybe even attacked, just as he was? What if she found nobody in that pub, if there wasn't any Leverage team left?

She stopped a whimper forming in her throat and hurried up a step in front of Buck.

A simple knock on Nate's door was out of question. It would be too reckless, too dangerous for them all. Even if nothing had happened today, she wouldn't risk exposing them that way.

She had to think of something. First, hide Buck somewhere nearby, in some bar or café, until she had completed her recon. Nobody could see Florence McCoy entering that brewery. She had enough money; she could pay someone, maybe a group of teenagers, to go there with her and give her some of their clothes as a disguise. Skaters! Yes, skaters would be perfect, with their knee and elbow pads, and helmets. She was short, she could get lost within the group. Once inside and away from any prying eyes possibly monitoring the brewery, she could think of her next step.

"Need a ride, Ma'am?"

She glanced sideways.

Nate stood only ten feet from her. He leant against the wall with his right shoulder, his hands in his pockets, and a derisive smirk on his face.

That smile broke the dam. She hurled herself at him, almost knocking him over.

"He is okay," he spoke only that.

All her questions evaporated from her mind; words betrayed her.

She grabbed at him, fistfuls of his shirt, as if her life depended on that hug – and while her tears fell freely, she realized it really did.

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"What's your purpose in my life, anyway?"

George didn't answer.

Eliot sank deeper in the seat.

He left the cabin because he couldn't think straight, not in the place in which every part reminded him of Flo. He needed a cool head now and emotional distance. He crawled to the car to find it, but instead he faced George's stare.

The more panicky he felt, seemed that George appeared calmer.

He knew he should try to calm down; he didn't need a tree to tell him that.

"I should've left you with Hardison and his pink water," he said and started the engine.

LAX and Florence's apartment were in the same direction, and for almost an hour he didn't have to decide between either. He only needed to survive that time, left without a clue and with a sarcastic tree that tried to direct his thoughts and mood. And who succeeded, at least on some level.

A ringing phone stirred them both; he almost dropped it when he grabbed it, and the car swerved on the road. He quickly pulled over.

"Angy again, Mr. Baker, Bill is at that crime scene. I'll connect his call, wait a sec…"

He turned the engine off. He waited the longest five seconds in his life, grateful he wasn't standing. Crippling fear wasn't just an expression.

"Mornin', boss," a young male voice said. "I talked with neighbors; the cops left. This here is one nasty and confusing mess, I tell you."

Nasty confusing mess at the crime scene had one meaning for him, he tried to remind himself. It would have different meanings for a delivery boy, a college student.

"Be more precise."

"Nobody knows what's going on. The cops arrived on scene and almost got in a fight with the CBS Security Team, who were offended because nobody had told them that something had happened. There was yelling and-"

"Apartment, Bill," he grated out. "What happened there?"

"Nothing. It was a false alarm. Somebody had reported a burglary but the cops entered and found no sign of forced entry, and the apartment was empty. So, I have no idea what to do with those flowers, nor when to return for another delivery attempt."

"Leave them on the doorstep and forget about it."

He cut the call, closed his eyes and just thumped his head backwards on the seat, breathing through sheer relief.

She was alive. Not dead. Maybe not even taken. The timing of that stupid burglary was what set all this shit off in the first place – when she returned to her apartment from here, following their crisis plan, she would have faced the cops blocking it. Thus she simply retreated, not knowing clearly what was up. She would try again later, and ultimately find his bouquet with his new number waiting for her.

His throat clenched; he had to clear it to be able to speak again. If he were still in their cabin, now he would be sprawled out on his back on their bed, staring at the ceiling. Lifting the burden turned him into amorphous mass – a very exhausted and frozen mass. The last night was gruesome, and the morning was terrifying. He would need a week to recover from the fear alone.

But his recovery had just started. He started the car again, though he wanted to stay there for the next ten hours, simply enjoying this relief.

She was probably drinking coffee in some café near her apartment, waiting for the air to clear. He could go there and find her, but it would take time. One hour, two hours, maybe more. And two hours in Portland might mean the difference between life and death for the team.

Fear fueled his rage, and he slammed his fist into the wheel. Damn it, had there been anything that hadn't gone wrong since they entered that pipe facility? He needed her, desperately needed to feel her in his arms, to know she was safe – and he had to leave without even being completely sure she was okay. The ache for that touch was so strong that he felt physical pain in his heart, in his arms.

But that would wait. Now he should go to Portland, and be there in less than three hours. By that time, she would have discovered the flowers and call him, and he would explain everything and tell her what to do next.

He was at position A – but now he had a clear plan for position B in front of him. It was time to deal with this doomed day once and for all.

He took the left turn and headed for the airport.

"And for your information, I wasn't panicking," he said.

George looked through the window on his side, and hummed Total Eclipse of the Heart.

 _Damn lunatic_.

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"I already made a call," Buck said while the three of them walked towards the Portland Airport parking lot. "Leave me out on the corner of Madison and Main Street, and they will pick me up."

"You're welcome to join us after lunch with your friends," Nate said. Florence darted him a grateful smile, but said nothing. She was too busy with her mental review of all their steps by now. Nate had told her about the car accident and dead phone that had triggered all this, and she was balanced between relief and banging her head upon any flat, preferably hard, surface nearby.

"Thank you, but I'll use this time to catch up. Besides, if I don't know where your lair of crime is, I can't tell anybody, right?"

Florence wasn't sure if Buck took all of this too seriously, or too lightly, and that was confusing. Nate didn't seem to be bothered, though. He just smiled and nodded.

Then she saw them. Sophie, Parker and Hardison, all three of them resting with their backs on Lucille's side, waiting for them. She squealed and took a quick step, but Nate's hand flashed and caught hers, stopping her.

She froze mid-step and glanced at him for any warning of possible trouble. She saw none; Nate only tilted his head at Buck.

 _Uh-oh_. Buck stared at the three members of the Leverage team.

It must've been the van that triggered his memory. They hadn't used Lucille when they grabbed him, but some other van, yet they wore black clothes then just as they did now, sans masks. He studied their shapes and postures for a moment, then shook his head.

"Something wrong?" Nate asked.

"Nah, nothing," Buck said. "Just a silly thought… forget it. So, this is your vigilante squad, Mr. Ford?" He pushed the carrier into her hands and continued with them to meet the team, putting his warmest and most charming smile on. "Florence never told me how enchanting they were."

Buck had years and years of experience in showing adoration to his female fans. He was a world-class actor, and even Sophie didn't notice his quick admiring glance at Hardison.

Sophie held out her hand. "Florence spoke very fondly of you."

He took her hand and bent to place a kiss on it. "I remember this perfume," he said. "And I remember how gorgeous you looked as Alison Hastings at the PVA ceremony. If you don't mind, I'd like to continue calling you that – that way I won't know your real name, so Florence's boyfriend won't take my head off."

Nate passed them by and straight to the driver's seat. "I suggest we continue this inside the van. Hop in."

Hardison opened the side door so they could all jump in, but Buck lingered with Sophie a moment more.

"I also remember how delicious your ankle tasted," he said.

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Florence let Sophie explain everything that led up to Buck's false kidnaping, garnered with Hardison's techy remarks, and she just sat back and reveled in the sound of their voices.

Parker was silent. She studied Buck as though a security threat, which was clear from her stiff posture. At the same time the thief seemed confused with the living, breathing Buck who stood before her, from the one on the show she watched and liked.

Nate was silent, too.

After five minutes, Florence got up and took the passenger seat.

"I have to tell you something," she said. "I might've made a reckless move."

Nate spared her a glance. "It was the right call, don't worry about it," he said. He returned his gaze upon the road, concentrating on driving. "Sterling is currently in his mild phase, pretty open to cooperation. He is, also, still in debt to me from Dubai, and we'd have to be at least even, before he makes any dangerous moves against us again."

She looked at him, at his half- ironic smile. She forgot how terrifying that mind of his was.

"You didn't know how to find us," he continued when she said nothing. "It was him, or Betsy – and I know you wouldn't risk involving her into something that you thought meant danger for us all."

"Nate Ford," she said. "Did you just explain something, or I maybe misheard? That would be, what, the first time ever?"

He smirked. "Corner of Madison Street," he announced to the back of the van.

She got up and jumped out with Buck, after he said his goodbyes and waved to the others.

She hugged him as tight as she could. "Thank you, thank you, _thank you_."

He tapped her on her shoulder with – again - his Richard Castle smirk. "You were right – it was fun. I liked this glimpse inside your criminal world. And all's well, that ends well." He didn't wait for her reply. He strode towards the pair who waited for him, and disappeared amongst the busy street.

His words only reminded her that this wasn't yet finished at all. Eliot was still out there searching for her, worrying – and the word worry, in his case, never took on its normal meaning. She sighed and returned into the van, to her seat by Nate. Now that Buck was out of the picture, it was time for serious matters.

"I might have some bad news," she said. She pulled out her USB stick. "Hardison, here's something for you."

The hacker took it, and she moved closer to the door so he could sit in the middle seat with his tablet.

"The CIA might be after me," she said. "And since I'm not interesting to them, that means they are trying to get to you and Eliot through me. On that USB drive, I have everything suspicious I collected about our CIA advisor on my show – he's monitoring me for some time. Clark Woodward."

Nate squinted.

"What?" She glanced sideways at Hardison – his fingers hovered over his keyboard, not moving.

"Nothing, go on," Nate said.

"It started after we returned from Boston. Perhaps our trek through the Vermont woods, surrounded by Police – and with the press involved – has raised some flags."

Now Hardison squinted.

"What?!"

"Nothing, go on." Hardison's voice sounded more like a moan.

Well, having the CIA on their tail might disturb even the Leverage team.

"That's why I panicked so much. The same day I tell Eliot about me being monitored, he disappears. Worst of all, I didn't know if that same guy was working for someone else, someone far more dangerous, perhaps one of your enemies." Even thinking about it disturbed her stomach again, and she took a shaky breath. "And that's why I asked Buck to help me. I'm sorry about that. I know you'd prefer him to stay out of the picture, but he helped with covering my tracks. If only Eliot had thought of something like that! This shit would've been entirely different if only he had someone who might serve as a middle-man in times of crisis. Perhaps, using a real person, who could be a trusted contact, instead of flowers floating everywhere; hundreds of flowers with hundreds of damn meanings. Fucking geraniums."

She expected a reply – she got only utter silence. She stirred from her grumbling to look at them – both of them looked straight ahead, with thoughtful expressions and bordering on empty stares.

"What?"

Nate took one deep and shaky breath, just like she had a moment before. "Nothing. Nothing at all. Hardison will work on that USB while… Hardison."

"What? Ah, yes, I'll work on it, right away, on my way, I'm psyching myself up…" Hardison jumped to his feet and returned to the back of the van, and Sophie and Parker.

"I suggest you discuss that CIA problem with Eliot," Nate went on. "You didn't mention that guy's name?"

"Duh; not over the phone, Nate."

"Right. " He rubbed his chin. For a second, he looked like a person suffering from a nasty toothache.

There was no time to continue their talk. Hardison returned, this time without the tablet. "I have a slight change of plans, Nate."

"Listening."

Hardison pushed a huge bucket between their two seats for Nate to observe. "I was thinking we might have time to make a small detour and drive by the pipe facility. I'd like to collect a little of that green goo – for scientific purposes only."

"A little? Five gallons? Forget it."

Hardison sighed and hid that bucket behind his back. His hand showed up again with a smaller bucket.

"How many of those do you have- No, Hardison. No visiting. We're driving directly home. No trespassing, no further trouble today, please."

Florence agreed wholeheartedly. Her happy ending was in sight and pretty certain at this point, but only when Eliot showed up would she be able to relax. Nate seemed serious – but Nate always looked serious – and that wasn't any marker for the situation. The others looked relieved and positive this was all just a major fuckup.

Hardison returned to the back of the van with grumbling sounds. She used the rest of their drive to observe Portland, before Nate parked Lucille in the huge backyard of an even bigger building.

The Leverage Headquarters, finally. The first part of her happy ending was within her reach – but when Nate opened the door and let her in into the dark, spacious office, Orion in Hardison's arms growled and let out one low hiss.

Her plot twist was already there, waiting.

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"Hello, Nate."

Sterling sat at the working table with a reading lamp, full of papers and techy thingies. If Florence felt a twitch of unease with the thought of his eyes going over the paper trail of their jobs, how did the others feel? She took a step back, letting the others go before her, thanking all gods she could remember that Eliot wasn't with them right now.

"Hello Sterling," Nate said. He turned on the big light, somewhere above them on the very high ceiling, and she now saw why her feet felt slippery. The floor was soaked with water. The air she breathed was a jungle air – warm, damp, and soil-y tasting.

"I always thought greenhouses were supposed to have more light than humidity." Sterling took one piece of paper between two fingers. It dripped. "Or you just stopped half way through?"

Nate said nothing, just observed him with his head slightly tilted.

But the rest of the team stepped forward. Florence frowned when she saw their smiles while they approached the sitting agent. Sterling frowned, too.

She knew that Sophie's smile; a predator in charge. The grifter stopped by Sterling's chair and lowered her head to his ear. Nobody knew what she whispered to him in those two short seconds, with that fiery smile. She passed by him and continued to the room behind the glass wall. It looked like a back office. Harlan Leverage III hung on the wall above two more tables.

Parker and Hardison surrounded Sterling. Hardison hooked his hip on the table at Sterling's right side, hovering over the sitting man. "Welcome to my house, Sterling. Again." His smile was tight lipped.

But Parker's smile was the one to worry about. Sterling offered a wolfish smile to Hardison, but it grew into a cautious one when he turned to Parker on his left side. The thief took the paper from his hand and put it back on the table.

Then she bent closer to him, with a gleam in her eye. "Hardison and I are dating," she said.

Florence felt a chill running up her spine. It was the most dreadful warning she had ever heard – and she heard a good deal of Eliot's growling and threats.

Sterling caught it, too.

Nate stepped forward. "Parker," he said. "Go help Sophie with water in the back office, please." She glanced at him, then tapped Sterling on his shoulder with a friendly, slightly plastic smile.

Hardison followed her and closed the glass door behind them all.

"When you're ready to get rid of those weirdoes," Sterling said, "and they are getting weirder every time I see them – you know where to find me."

Nate didn't smile. "Why are you here?"

"I smelled trouble and came here to gloat." Sterling looked past Nate at her, and smiled. "I am _not_ here to help."

Of course he wasn't. And he was. Florence was careful not to show any of her thoughts. She saw this balancing before – a grumbling inward fight between what was a right, and what was a just thing to do. It went deeper than his and Nate's justice versus law battle. He did come to gloat – but if they needed his help, he would provide it. With interest, of course.

"I forgot about your curiosity," Nate said. Florence raised her eyebrows. In her world, it was a compliment. Sterling's weary expression confirmed to her that he wasn't sure of Nate's meaning either.

"I wouldn't call it curiosity." Sterling stood up and felt his trousers. The darker spots on the dark grey fabric looked damp. "I'd like to know what your deadly bunch of renegades on the loose is doing in my town. I call it control. And damage prevention. I presume your trouble has ended with satisfying results, according to her smile, so you don't plan anything spectacular, that might disturb Portland?"

"Right now, the only spectacular thing on my mind is a late lunch. Would you like to join us?"

"By all means." Sterling's derisive smile matched Nate's. "But I'll decline the offer. Too busy providing law to the good people of Portland."

"Till the next time, then." Nate went to see him out. Sterling nodded at her while passing by – she replied with a gentle smile.

She used that minute to study their new place.

It had no warmth, all in metal, bricks and glass. Numerous little plants scattered all around, did add a little color, but it was clear that nobody lived in this office. She remembered that Hardison said a long time ago that he would live in their next Headquarters, so the huge stairs going up to the gallery must've led to his place. And there was no kitchen.

Nate returned when Sophie and Parker came back from the back room, with cloths, mops and buckets. Hardison followed them typing on his tablet.

Nate went directly to the table and glanced at the papers that were in Sterling's reach. He nodded to himself then took a big yellow envelope from the drawer. "I wasn't kidding when I mentioned lunch," he said. "We'll go and see what's on today's menu – you have yet to see Hardison's brewery and restaurant."

Whatever. No matter how close the restaurant kitchen was, it wasn't here. She missed seeing Eliot cooking for all of them.

"You three." Nate turned to the rest of the team, and raised the envelope. "Put them in there."

Sophie giggled as she passed by him. Florence saw a glimpse of a couple of credit-cards she slipped into the envelope. Parker followed, with a shiny Interpol badge and a sulking frown.

"I didn't touch him," Hardison said.

Nate waited.

"What? I didn't! I might've cloned his phone – ain't any need for touching to do that."

"Send this to The Highpoint Tower." Nate pushed the envelope into his hands, with a pained expression.

Florence barely suppressed her giggle. Some things never changed.

She took a bunch of cloths from Parker, still grinning, and followed Sophie towards the dampest part of the floor.

Yes, she was home.

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This new office didn't have a sofa in front of the screens, just one huge chair and a few smaller ones in a semi-circle. Their working table, taller than a normal desk, lit up and techy looking, followed that semi-circle as a wall behind the chairs. It was comfortable, at least for Parker who took the big chair.

Even cleaning up the office was fun. Parker and Sophie spoke about their jobs, she told them anecdotes from shooting, Hardison whined about the wet dust, and she could almost forget the time that was passing. Or maybe they wanted to keep her occupied so as not to worry further about Eliot and his whereabouts. Nate had said that he would be all right – Nate who withdrew from the cleaning saying he had to personally go through all the wet papers – and she trusted him. She only had to wait.

They took her on a short tour through the brewery. Its huge kitchen only further reminded her of her problems with cooking in general, though that was yesterday's trouble and it seemed so irrelevant today.

They decided to eat in the office. The first shift employees went home only minutes before they had arrived, and the new ones were busy with a full restaurant, so they moved out of the way.

Her bouquet arrived along with their meal, and she spent all that time explaining her day to Nate. Flowers, warnings, danger degrees, precautions, reactions – she tried to pour out every detail she remembered. Hardison and Sophie were fascinated; their questions pointed out a few useful tips that might help later, so she jotted them down for Eliot. Nate, on the other hand, asked nothing. He just listened with undivided attention – always very disturbing for her – and his eyes seemed to be slightly glazed over.

Orion nestled with Parker in the chair, after he rummaged through the office and casually knocked over a few small plants. The thief surprised them all at one point. When Florence thought about going out and buying the cat's litter, or taking him out in the back yard, Parker left the table and went upstairs. She returned a minute later, armed with a cat toilet, litter, and his favorite food.

Even Nate was taken aback.

Parker sat and continued her meal, as if that wasn't anything special or even worth mentioning. Florence had a hard time hiding her warmth – and warmth often led to tears in her case – so she played along and simply said nothing.

She forgot that meals with the Leverage team never went without the sound of typing. Hardison worked on his tablet while they ate.

"I found him, you know? He is on his way here," the hacker said when the plates were taken away and only glasses remained on the table they had put in front of the chairs. "It took some time, though – I had to search for every alias I ever made for him, poking and probing all of them in various searches, until I found one of them used to rent a car. If only I'd asked you at once where your cabin was, I could've used it as a starting point, but by the time I remembered that, he'd already left. I caught up with him at LAX. He will soon be here."

"No, he won't be here soon," Nate said. He pointed towards the screens, and a square in the upper left corner, with many little surveillance camera recordings. "He _is_ here. And I suggest you go and meet him."

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Whatever had happened with the team, Eliot knew he would have a hard time dealing with that alone. If they'd been grabbed, killed, held captive, arrested, or scattered – and he could come up with a few more outcomes – working on that without the hacker would be a gruesome stumbling in any search for clues. He had forgotten how on-foot investigations were slow and maddening, especially when results didn't simply appear on the screen.

Initially, he thought about a careful, probing approach, but his distraught nerves wouldn't let that happen. He pulled in directly at the front of the back yard, slammed the car door shut and marched in, carrying George.

He put him on the ground. The tree hummed Sitting on the Dock of the Bay, out of tune, and obviously out of his mind.

No one in sight; no delivery trucks or brewery staff. An eerie silence lay around the usually busy backyard.

If his luck held, somebody would be there hidden, waiting for him. A solid, dangerous trap was what he needed right now. It would give him a chance to finally punch somebody, and also spare him from trying to figure out where to start his search for the team.

That pathetic somebody would be his first trail, and dammit all, he was going to squeeze every last bit of information out of him. Preferably, out of them. The more, the merrier.

The first thing he saw was Lucille, innocently parked in her usual spot. Version A: the team was there, safe and sound. Version B: Lucille was full of _somebodies_ waiting for him.

Both versions put a smile on his face, and he hastened his steps.

A quiet whistle, coming from the back door, stopped him mid-step. He turned sideways, keeping an eye on Lucille.

A small hand reached through the slit, and waved up and down. He didn't recognize the hand, but he did recognize the move.

One eye under a mess of tangled curls peered through the opening. "Hi there, handsome stranger."

He took another step towards her… and stopped.

"We are all here, the team is safe, and everything is fine," she said. She opened the door completely so he could check – no guns pointing at her back. Just an empty hall that led to their office.

"I will explain everything," she quickly continued, "but now stop staring. Breathe. And come here, finally."

He stopped staring. He took one long, long breath, held it a few seconds, and slowly exhaled.

Forcing his feet to move was more difficult than that. For the second time that day, relief melted him into a pitiful poodle.

 _Keep your composure up_. _Don't let her see how scared you were_.

He came to her and put his hands into his pockets, putting an unfelt smile on his face. "Hello, stranger," he said, leaning with a shoulder on the door frame. "Ya' come here often?"

She raised her eyebrows at his casual tone, and something dark flickered in her eyes, dimming their light. Yeah, he thought his acting wouldn't fool her, anyway. One step, and she slid into his arms.

A painful knot clenched in his throat at that touch. He balanced between irrational anger, gratitude, tears and kisses, and a storm of curses and caresses whirled in his mind. He choked on the first word he tried to say, so he simply buried his face in her hair, and said none.

It took an immense effort not to squeeze her with all his strength; his muscles still vibrated with adrenaline and fear, ready for a fight. Her face was buried in his neck, her arms wrapped around him – and he just stood there, holding her, trying to calm down.

"You are allowed to feel, Eliot Spencer," she whispered finally. "You are allowed to be afraid. Don't act for me." She put her palm on his face and looked up, a gentle smile almost hiding a sorrow in her eyes. _Almost_.

Yeah, she knew. She could feel the tremble still set in his body, and no casual smile could hide his eyes.

 _Feelings are weakness, and that can be used against you_ , he tried to tell her, but stopped before any word went out. There wasn't any enemy out there, waiting to use that weakness, only the inner one. And that one has already beaten him. Every time he fought with his feelings, he lost. It was time to change the tactics.

He scooped her off her feet, and sat on the doorstep with her on his lap.

"My mind is a scary place," he said. His voice surprised him; a strangled, hoarse whisper. "No, be quiet." He put his finger on her lips; her eyes were big and dark. "Let me finish."

How could one explain fear and control, mingled together in order to survive?

"If you let fear out, if you show it, you're giving him power," he said. His hand trailed through her curls, too shaky for his liking. "I don't give power over me to anything." He gritted his teeth for a moment, fighting the storm raging in his chest. "Only you have it. And you always will."

She let out an unintelligible sound, and tears filled her eyes.

"That's why I don't have to show you how I feel. You know. You always knew that. And I would even cry now, without any problem, if only I could remember how to actually do it."

"I don't have problems with crying," she whispered. "I was so damn scared. I did everything – well, almost everything I remembered – and all those steps just complicated everything. I didn't know what to-"

"Shhh," he said. "Not now." He kissed her, and kissed her tears, but it didn't stop them.

"Coming here was the only thing I could think to do when you disappeared. I had to get to Nate to tell him what happened, so he could start searching for you – and then I remembered you told me that the team was being monitored too, and I thought they might have been killed or something…" Her whisper wavered as she spoke faster. "I thought I would never find out what had happened to you – and that's maybe even worse than actually knowing. Just imagine how you'd feel if I were to simply vanish one day, and you never-"

Dammit, no. He didn't want his thoughts going in that direction, ever. The weight of a heavy stone sat in his belly, cold and heavy. He reached to her face and gently wiped her tears, again, and then pinched her cheek.

 _That_ stopped her words. She looked at him in disbelief for the moment before her eyes flashed.

"I'm not…I _don't_ look like mashed potatoes when I cry!"

"Of course not." He pinched her cheek again.

"Stop it." An amused frown, smile, and tears all mixed together, and took his breath away. "I mean it, Eliot. Bitch face commencing in three, two-"

He pinched her again and again, and she grumbled waving his hand off – and she finally laughed.

"That's better." He feigned another pinch and used it to block both of her hands. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. "And now, no more talking," he whispered in a kiss. "Just sit there and smile. This day is over, and it ended well. We'll start our weekend - now."

"Deal." She relaxed in his arms and snuggled closer, and he just held her, aware that his words were meant to calm him down more than her.

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Orion and George slept on the plant's shelf, under the artificial light. Orion had his nose resting on George's soil. This day had been exhausting for them too. Eliot sighed, wondering when he could grab Florence and leave the office. He hadn't slept for two days in a row.

He diverted his gaze from the pair and looked at the small bundle of annoyance marching to and fro in front of his feet, which were raised on the table.

"And, you meant to tell me about Woodward whenexactly?"

Eliot took the last bite of his black risotto, using it as an excuse to say nothing. It didn't stop Florence's pacing. He simply adored when her voice elevated to this angry thunder, followed by the lightning from her eyes. His own personal and miniature hurricane. _Adorable_.

"Sophie," she turned to the grifter curled up with a glass of wine in another chair. The team enjoyed the show, especially Hardison and Nate who were also a target of her grumbling. "Sophie, you have to teach me how to pull off a real bitch face. It seems that my current one is nothing but a source of immense joy for him."

Was he really that transparent? He quickly put on his sternest façade, and tried to scowl.

"Oh absolutely, no problem, my dear." Sophie sounded as if she was in matchmakers' heaven, and her cooing and warmth helped him to maintain his scowl. "It's quite easy, in fact. Just take a look, and try to repeat it."

Maybe he should've warned Florence. Sophie's face changed only slightly, even her smile stayed, but her eyes narrowed, cold and distant. Florence gasped. Yeah, she had never met Annie Croy before. Parker cackled as loudly as an evil imp.

"Leave it for later," Hardison jumped in, right on time. "After we all discuss the last twenty-four hours and the unfortunate chain of events-" That gave him another nasty look darted in his direction; she would continue with the Woodward issue later, he just knew that, "-we can concentrate on yesterday's case wrapping up. I'd prefer I could get my hands on some samples. We can still go an-"

"Nope," Nate said from behind them. He withdrew at the working table with papers and a bottle of whiskey after they had broached everything important.

"Are you sure? Scientifically speaking-"

"Nope. Do continue with the wrap up."

Hardison glared over their heads to Nate, and then obeyed. "Okay," he let out a tortured sigh. "In short, we have a happy ending on all fronts. First, the Police get one more tip about Francouer. This basic formula for gummy frogs in liquid form was meant for fake bonbons that would soon flood the market. It was almost in its final stage – the final action would be to add more jelly, or equivalent, before molding them into their frog shape. Thousands of gummy frogs…" his voice trailed into a whisper.

"Hardison, focus."

"The formula isn't exactly the same – hence the rose smell – and without scientific proof which I'm forbidden to provide, we can't tell whether it was hazardous for our health, or safe for consumption. The Police will have to take it over now and finish everything." Hardison pulled the documents and transactions onto the screen, and engaged into his report.

Florence sat in the chair next to him, and Eliot removed the plates around himself to make room for her, when it hit him. This was their first encounter with the Leverage team as a couple. Maybe that was the reason for her being so itchy when they joined them all in the office. He couldn't make her laugh even when he saw her bouquet for Nate and translated to her what, exactly, she had sent. Yeah, two sequences made her smile: _Eliot flower flower away_ , and _coming flower me followed_ – but that was all.

She had kept herself in the background while he talked with the team, until Hardison, very carefully, pulled her data from the USB on the screen. And the storm about Woodward followed.

No wonder she sat straight and stiff, not knowing what to do with her hands, or how to look at him.

And for the one long, long moment, he wasn't sure either.

She saw he stopped reaching for her, and she diverted her eyes as if watching Hardison's screen.

"… and if we add this to all the documents we already have framed him for, he is done for good." Hardison removed the images and put another sequence on the screen. "I also had time to wrap up a few missing details from our last three jobs. Ushi Gaeru Conglomerate has no connections with Francouer, nor does that hospital, or any make-up industry we fought in Drag Queen. However…"

Eliot tuned out Hardison's voice again. Hardison would provide a printed report anyway. Now he had more important things on his mind.

They were his damn family. She was the woman he loved. He had to, as soon as possible, override this strange hesitation. Showing his feelings within a small, trusted circle wasn't a weakness – it was supposed to be normal.

Yeah, he'd never considered himself a normal person. He had to learn how to behave as one, after so many years of hiding behind the masks and false identities. Reset buttons didn't work on whole pictures, whole lives. He had to apply them one by one, targeted application.

"Parker," he said to the thief sitting left of him in her chair. "Move."

She frowned at him at first, but she clearly read something in his eyes, because she sighed and got up.

He jumped onto his feet and scooped Florence up from her chair. They could both sit in Parker's throne; very close and very glued, just like he wanted it.

"She is mine," he proclaimed to the wave of flickering smiles on all the faces around them, even on Nate's. "Any objections?" Florence did smile, too, but she also blushed. That pink nuance almost stole all his attention, and he had to force himself to focus on the team.

"Nah, no objections," Hardison grinned as wide as he could. "Moving on with the briefing… btw, I found Farmville on Sterling's phone. Any idea how he got it?"

He squinted. Their smiles grew downright evil for a change. They all knew how he got it. "Yeah, a few ideas come to mind. I'll send him a friend request. Maybe a duck, or two."

Florence, still nestled in his embrace, looked at him a little weary. He hadn't reacted at her calling Sterling when they talked about the day's events, yet she clearly expected some sort of reaction. And the reason he said nothing was because he was so damn proud of her decisions. Some of them almost crushed him, like calling those damn cops… but it was worth it. And she noticed Woodward, a pro, all by herself. Calling Sterling for help was the right call.

He would wait until they were alone, finally, and tell her everything that he thought of her moves and decisions. She deserved it. And that _finally_ wasn't in any near future. Sophie and Parker were already arranging tons of popcorn for the evening – they planned to watch the last three episodes of The Magnificent Seven together, with editorial notes just as they did back in Boston. Their crazy pace in the past month made them skip the viewing, and they wanted to catch up. And Florence so visibly enjoyed being here with then, that he didn't have the heart to mention leaving early.

His arm was wrapped around her shoulders and she rested her head on his chest. He could only see the top of her nose and curls, but even that was enough.

She was here now. They had time to be together. He stopped watching her and concentrated on Hardison again.

"… and with that, our happy ending is complete."

Wait, what? Hardison's briefings were usually endless.

"Can you repeat that last part?"

He gave him the perfect chance for mockery, but Hardison played nicely this evening and only frowned at him.

"Facial recognition camera wasn't aimed at us. We weren't the target. I tracked the manufacturer and followed the serial number. A woman bought it. Sue Walton, a journalist. She is a freelancer specialized in frauds and fakes and quite well known in Portland. I didn't have time to dig too deep, but I can be pretty sure Francouer was her mark. A high-resolution camera was needed to catch the details around the facility, more than faces of the personalities. I will work on her later and see if she might be useful in future. So, as I said, a happy ending. No threats, nothing connecting our four jobs. We've found our precious lost princess…," Hardison clicked his remote and the screens turned dark. His smile grew wider. "And even Florence is safe and sound, too."

Flo's giggle vibrated through his chest, so he spared the hacker any nasty glares. He was right, after all. This day couldn't have ended better than it did.

"And now," Sophie snatched the remote from Hardison. "Binge watching M7. Parker, bring forth the popcorn. Nate, will you join us?"

"Yeah, eventually," came his reply. "I can see the screen quite well from here."

He turned sideways to glance at Nate who rearranged the bunch of papers in front of him.

Nate poured his third glass of whiskey.

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Eliot waited until the middle of the first episode before he went for more popcorn, and after that he walked over to Nate. He waved to Florence he would join them again shortly, and they all continued with their comments and babbling.

Nate didn't look drunk, though his eyes shone a little brighter than usual. It could be because of the small lamp on the table, the only source of light except for the screens. It added a glistening, but still kept him in a half shadow.

Nate pulled out one more glass when he sat in front of him. He even directed the lamp sideways so it didn't flash into his eyes. The shadows deepened, and so did his worry.

It wasn't the time for beating around the bush. "What's wrong?"

"Not wrong, just… not pleasant thinking."

"Care to share?"

"You won't like it." Nate leaned back in the chair, and his face fell in deeper shadow. "It isn't wise to speak about the uselessness of protection when you have a protector in front of you. But you know that, too, right? You know how fragile our safety nets are."

"Both kinds," he said.

Nate raised his eyebrows in silent question.

"The real ones we put under the ones we love, and those in our minds, keeping us sane from fear."

"And because you know that, I can tell you this. You can't protect the people you love. You can't save them. The only thing you can do is to be with them as much as you can, to seize the time you are given. Don't waste time running around, destroying everything that might threaten them, because in the end that time would be wasted. Fate always finds a way."

"Is that the bottle speaking?" But even before pain flickered in Nate's eyes, he knew the answer. No, it was experience.

"When that time comes," Nate said quietly, "your security measures won't protect her. Your presence might. And even if it doesn't, you'll at least be with her. At least you'll know you haven't wasted your time."

"My security measures are-"

Nate raised his hand. "Wait. Do you remember the Occam's Razor Principle? A wise man once said, if I recall correctly… _'If you have two equally likely solutions to a problem, choose the simplest'. If you go further, it simply becomes the Cut The Crap Principle; see what you must do, and do it the simplest way you can, without complicated plans, investigations, cons and all that shit."_

 _Damn you, Nate, you and your perfect memory._ His own words, as he had told Bonnano a long time ago, returned as a boomerang to his head.

"There's nothing simple in the protection business, Nate. You can't apply that to this situation."

"By all means. I wouldn't think of telling you how to do your job. But…"

"But, you are about to tell me how to do my job?"

A small smile danced on Nate's lips. "No. I will tell you something about fear. That shit forces us to build our defenses, to put defending walls around those whom we love. And it's never enough. You dig a ditch around your castle and fill it with water, then dig another one and fill it with fire. You strengthen your walls and build high towers; you spread barbed wire and sniper's nests… and again, fear whispers. It's never enough. So you add three more flowers to your signals, to cover more warnings. Making you dissect your fear into levels and degrees of danger, and charge at destiny, challenging it."

He took a sip of his whiskey, watching Nate's fingers playing with his glass. He rotated it on the table, one small movement to the right after every sentence. His unease grew.

"All parts of your planning are perfect. I talked with Pixie; she told me everything she remembered. Every wall, every tower would stop the enemy advancing to your castle. Tactically, it works."

"And what would a strategist do?

"He would take a look at your towers… and then go to your basement to study your groundwork. Remember my Center of Gravity plan back in Boston, when we thought we would have to take four jobs at once? To find the one point to press, that would crumble all of them at the same time? When you plan, you have to think of that one thing… one thing that's a core weakness. Pull that one card, and entire house of cards will cave in. Pull one string from a woolen vest, and see how it untangles. That's what happened to you today. If you learn how to eliminate that one weak link, there'll be no stopping you."

A weight settled firmly on his heart. The last time Nate did this was when they solved that cheerleader job. He pushed him to work on the mark, forcing him to find for himself what the best approach would be, how to press the right buttons. It _wasn't_ his job.

"You did this before," he said. "You could have told me how to hook LeGrange the whole time, but you wanted to see if I could figure it out on my own. I trust someday very, very soon, you're gonna tell me what kind of game you're playing."

And the same reckless smile appeared on Nate's face. "I see the whole picture – I search for deep weaknesses in people's plans and actions. One day, you might face someone like me. Learn how to deal with him."

"That's your job. I bust heads."

Nate finished his drink in one sip, and pointed with the glass towards the group in front of the screens. "She is in LA," he said. "You will be there, perhaps, when trouble strikes the next time. You might be on your own, again. And I don't have to tell you how important the initial correct steps are if somebody charges at your castle."

"I'm surprised you didn't use chess as an example."

"Ah, chess is too simple for comparing against this game you are playing. It's the mere moving of pieces on the board. You made your plan like a three-dimensional chess board."

"Somehow, that doesn't sound like a compliment."

"It wasn't. One card was pulled out today. It crumbled."

Nate put the glass back on the table and leaned forward. The bleak amusement that colored his eyes until now evaporated. "In the end, Eliot, maybe whatever you do won't be enough. There is no such thing as perfect protection, even if she is here with you all the time – and you know it. And because you know it, because that fear never stops, only grows, you raise your towers."

The weight pressed harder. And he could feel the same weight on Nate's heart, when his eyes flickered towards the rest of the team.

He took the bottle and filled their glasses again. This time, when Nate ended his shot in one twist of his hand, his knuckles around the glass were white.

"You take care of the groundwork, and I'll take care of the towers, Nate."

"Yeah, it's working. For now." Nate put the bottle in the drawer. "No, go back to them. Don't waste your time. I'll join you for the second episode, as soon as I'm finished with this."

"This?"

"Final details about those four jobs. I'm taking one more look before I file them away."

Nate turned the lamp back on the papers, not watching him anymore, and he got up.

But he didn't go to Florence. He went to the shelf with light.

Orion purred when he tapped his head; George tried to purr, too, and almost choked himself.

He pulled an envelope under Orion; the envelope containing two words Nate wrote for him when they talked immediately after Vermont mess.

It said: _phone malfunction_.

A curse escaped him. One thing that would pull all others after itself, and everything would crumble. If he had a spare phone…if he had an earbud... if he…

Yeah, indeed his house of cards had many towers. And was useless when it first came to test.

"Sleep," he said to Orion and George, put the paper in his pocket, and returned to Florence and popcorn.

But Nate was wrong with one thing. He didn't have to learn how to make his groundwork solid. He didn't function that way. Tacticians never dwelt on lost battles; it was a waste of time and resources. They prepared for the next one.

He tried to play this chess game by moving the pieces and connecting them into an impenetrable net, one piece protecting the other in multiple layers. _Too complicated and too fragile_. Cut one layer of protection and even a hundred flower shops couldn't save the game.

Florence would spend more time in LA than in Boston. With C4, her show had fifteen episodes, but with CBS, twenty-two episodes in one season. His Queen would have a bishop now openly by her side, with Woodward's role revealed. She even had a useless King, that Buck; good for nothing except for being there to cover one field at her side. But it wasn't enough.

"Is everything all right?" Florence whispered.

"Perfectly fine," he said with a smile. "Unless you attack us with spoilers."

And it really was. Now he knew what his next step would be, and a glimpse of that future brought a grin on his face.

He wouldn't move the pieces anymore. He would move the board. He would change the players. He would mess with nuances between black and white, confusing everyone, hiding his Queen in plain sight.

And he had a brilliant idea how to do it.

.

.

.

.

Five people in front of him laughed and commented on the episode; the smell of popcorn almost erased the taste of whiskey from his mouth. But Nate didn't join them.

Hardison had missed one small detail in his report about their four jobs. The hacker had no time to check everything, and this day was too filled with information.

He had told the hacker today that if he managed to find just one thing that connected them, it would be proof of something nasty going on, and now he had it. Hardison didn't think of translating the name of that Japanese conglomerate.

 _Ushi Gaeru_. Bullfrog in English, the same as Lithobates Catesbeianus, a code name for Francouer's liquid gummy frogs. The two jobs that came one after another, with regular clients with no connection between them, with completely different case and crime.

Someone was playing with the Leverage team. Someone was messing with his game, leaving him bread crumbs to see and follow them.

He put four documents on the table – four jobs.

Letters danced in his mind. Details pirouetted on the papers, weaving all four jobs into one complicated spiral.

There was a center in that whirlpool, a fragile axis. It was too evasive for him to catch it, but he felt it right there, in the middle.

They had many enemies, some of them more powerful than others. But those four jobs that stirred his unease were all after they returned from Phoenix. After Ian de Bruin.

"I feel your mind," he whispered. "I feel you probing."

Laughter from the chairs, light and high, only gave a darker tone to his thoughts. He looked at the five people gathered around the popcorn, and a heavy weight settled in his heart.

 _You can't protect the people you love. You can't save them_.

But sometimes you could.

He opened the drawer in his table, but he didn't touch the bottle this time.

He pulled out a gun and put it in his pocket.

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.

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THE END


End file.
